Missing
by L Zaza
Summary: Season Three, Episode Five of the Virtual Season Project. In a series of events that could only happen to Starbuck, our hero goes missing.
1. Prologue

Missing

Virtual Season Three, Episode Five

By Lisa Zaza

Prologue

Starbuck pressed himself against the wall, instinctively trying to make himself smaller. He scarcely dared even breathe. Footsteps were drawing ominously closer, and he paused only a moment to determine what direction he should head, before he raced away, cursing the loud clapping that his boots made, giving him away, as he fled down the corridor.

It had been just a harmless bet. _How do you get yourself into these predicaments, Bucko?_

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he repeatedly tried each of the hatches he came across, in order to escape, or at least buy himself a little more time. Each one stubbornly denied him entry, and he raced onward, sure he could hear the sound of pursuit snapping at his heels. He had to get away. He'd never live . . .

"_There he is_!"

Starbuck made a break for the ladderwell, taking a leap of faith and sliding down the side supports until he hit the deck hard. He hissed as he went over on one ankle, toppling to the surface sideways. Above him he could hear their voices getting louder and closer. He pushed himself to his knees, gritting his teeth as he forced himself upright. Pain shot through his ankle, yet he pushed onward, limping heavily and occasionally using the bulkhead for support as he sped around the corner, hoping to shake them. _Idiot!_

"_Did you see which way he went?_"

"_Split up! You guys go that way, we'll go this way!_"

He wrenched yet another handle to another hatch, but amazingly, this one gave way. Finally, the Goddess of Luck was back with him . . . apparently out for a luncheon with her friends for the last centar, where they had likely been looking down on him and laughing uproariously over their glasses of ambrosa. He pushed his way inside the dark room, pivoting to close the hatch and twist the latch to lock it.

That done, it broke off in his hand.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Thank the Lords he was on furlon, so he could be there for this. Boomer had missed quite a few of these check ups, caught up in the new and many responsibilities of being the Red Squadron Leader. He squeezed Athena's hand as together they watched their babies on the medical screen. Athena was only a couple sectars from giving birth now, and often quipped about the unfairness of only having one good sectar of the pregnancy before chronic back pain from carrying two babies on her usually slender frame, had replaced the constant nausea she had suffered in the first trimester.

"Have you settled on any names yet?" Cassie asked, running the medical analyser over Athena's belly while she entered measurements into her data pad.

"We have a top ten," Athena replied elusively. Everybody knew they were having a boy _and_ a girl, so they were keeping the chosen names to themselves. It was Starbuck who had insensitively joked over dinner one evening that if everybody already knew the sexes, all that was left was to find out was if the babies were adorable or ugly. Of course, he had ended up wearing Athena's fruit juice, with a melon rind chaser, and had found out firsthand not to mess with a woman with raging hormones.

"How are your studies going, Cassie?" Boomer asked, feeling a little guilty that every time they were together, they ended up focussing on the twins almost exclusively.

"At the end of the secton I take my oral exams, then submit my written dissertation. I'll officially go from medical student to a resident, which is pretty exciting," she smiled. "Providing I pass, of course."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," Athena replied confidently. "You've aced every test and exam so far. What's the difference, anyway? Being a resident?"

"Well, essentially I go from having to run everything by one of the physicians to actually having some measure of autonomy," she admitted. "Of course, it's a lot of responsibility, as well."

"You'll be _Dr._ Cassiopeia?" Boomer asked.

"Has a nice sound to it, doesn't it?" she smiled, with a nod. "Of course, there's still a long way to go before I'm a fully qualified physician. And I'm already beginning to think I'll want to do a fellowship, and then go on to specialize."

"How's Starbuck dealing with it?" Athena chuckled. They all knew that Cassiopeia had dedicated more and more of her free time to her studies, and correspondingly less of it to Starbuck. Fortunately, that seemed to coincide with the lieutenant taking that opportunity to be with his father, seeing Chameleon through a difficult time, after Claudia—neither Cassiopeia, nor Athena for that matter, would ever feel comfortable referring to her by her real and now reclaimed name of Ayesha—had left the reformed conman to return to her husband, Baltar, on his Base Ship, theoretically keeping the former Traitor of Mankind in check.

"Surprisingly well," Cassie replied. "Starbuck doesn't seem to have a shortage of things to do."

"Isn't he running a card game tonight while we're at the baby shower?" Athena asked. Cassie had organized the celebration for Athena in the Gemonese tradition, planning it _before_ the babies were born. It was an opportunity for friends to get together and spoil the mother-to-be before the reality of two demanding infants changed Athena's world inexorably.

"Yeah," nodded Boomer. "He's convinced most of Blue Squadron and a handful of other guys that his luck has taken a turn for the worse, and they have half a chance."

Cassie giggled. "You don't sound convinced."

"In my experience, Starbuck loses when he's sure he'll win, and he wins when he thinks he's down on his luck."

"Are you going?" Cassie returned.

"Not this time. I have better things to spend my cubits on," he smiled at his beautiful wife, glancing again at the screen. "Besides, I have a backlog of after-action and fitness reports to file, and a roster to finish."

"I thought you were on furlon?" Athena frowned.

"I'm starting to learn that furlons are for the squadron, _not_ the squadron leader," he replied ruefully. "Besides, if you ladies are getting together in our quarters, then I think it's only proper that I make myself scarce."

"He means he doesn't want to be in a room full of women fawning over baby clothes and drinking nectar," Athena interpreted with a laugh.

"I didn't say that . . ." he chuckled, raising his hands in surrender.

"No, but you were _thinking_ it," she returned, as he pulled her hand to his lips, kissing it.

"Oh, that reminds me," Cassie added. "Sheba telecommed. Apparently, Boxey is going to the _Astrodon_ Freighter to spend a couple nights with a friend from instructional period, whose parents recently found larger quarters there."

"Sounds like Sheba isn't coming to the shower, after all," Athena smirked. While she would miss her, it didn't bother her unduly. After all, it wasn't often that Apollo and Sheba were able to get a couple nights alone together.

"Exactly," Cassie nodded, giggling, as Boomer began studying the medical scan intently.

"And I'm betting big brother won't be playing cards tonight either," Athena added with a grin.

"It _would_ be a waste of empty quarters," Cassie nodded. "If we've taught Sheba anything about romance, then I'm betting there will be candlelight, dinner for two, and that lacy, black peignoir that she found on the _Rising Star _last secton."

"I'm still here," Boomer mentioned, clearing his throat.

"So you are," Athena laughed. "I thought you'd run off to the Officer's Club, or something. Are we making you uncomfortable?"

"Well . . ."

"We're just getting warmed up for this evening," Cassie added with a grin.

"Duty Office, here I come," he returned decisively, as they laughed at his expense.

----------

Starbuck sighed, shaking his head in disbelief as he blinked in the dark, holding the broken latch in his hand. Yeah, he might have escaped pursuit for now, but leave it to him to end up trapped in a room with a broken lock and a twisted ankle. Still, there should be an internal keypad to release the lock. Supporting most of his weight on his uninjured foot, he ran his hand blindly along the wall until he found the light switch in its customary location, turning it on, so the room was illuminated.

Of course, he shouldn't be too hasty. He'd escaped capture by the skin of his teeth, and hanging out in a storeroom _could_ bring back memories of pleasant diversions of the past. After all, a storeroom to an innovative cadet or Colonial Warrior was about as close as Starbuck had ever come to a bachelor apartment. It afforded a little privacy in an environment that sadly lacked it. Some heated romance, the odd card game, a secreted bottle of cheap ambrosa . . . the only problem was you had to choose your storeroom carefully, and occasionally book ahead to beat the rush.

He glanced at his chrono, deciding he'd delayed long enough, and finally entered the routine override code on the keypad.

_Beep_!

He curled a lip in disdain when nothing happened. Although the light was on which indicated the keypad was functional, nothing was happening. He tried again, using every code he knew for doors all over the _Galactica__, including Apollo's command code, which he'd __accidentally__ witnessed his friend using__. _Nothing. He breathed out a short breath of frustration, cursing Colonial maintenance, as he took a good look around.

It was the storage room from Hades Hole, filled with useless old mong that "Corporal Clutter" didn't have the brains or the brass to get rid of, and bereft of anything in the way of a comm unit. Not only that, but it appeared heavily fortified, probably used a hundred yahrens ago to house some kind of explosive material.

"Real cosy, Bucko," he murmured, turning and kneeling down to examine the stump of the handle sticking out of the door. Broken off cleanly, there was nothing he could grip to try and reverse the damage he had done. He pressed his ear to the door in faint hope that he could hear someone beyond the third-of-a-metron thick cast-tylinium hatch. Preferably someone not chasing him. Not surprisingly, nothing in the way of sound penetrated the thick barrier. "Frack."

Well, the day was early and he wasn't near ready to quit yet. Casting a glance back at the shelves covered in outdated and retired parts, not to mention about five yahrens worth of dust, he limped forward, determined to find something in all that junk that could get him out of there. Lords, _why_ had he opted to leave his laser behind, secured in his locker? It would have taken a while, but if he had adjusted the setting on his missing weapon, he could have eventually cut through the broken lock with the laser, and escaped. By then his pursuers would probably have been long gone.

"Obviously, that would have been too simple, pal," Starbuck mocked himself, checking his chrono. The big card game would be starting in a few centars, and he had every intention of being there. Determinedly, he began rifling through storage containers.

----------

"Didn't I tell him to be back by 1600 centars? Didn't I?" Apollo asked his wife testily. "Does he think I'm just talking just to hear the sound of my own voice?" he added, glancing at the backpack that the child had packed for his secton-end visit at Zaden's on the _Astrodon_ Freighter. He sighed, knowing he _should_ check the contents. More likely than not it contained Boxey's "essentials", which while fun to play with, wouldn't necessarily ensure him a clean pair of briefs to come home in.

Sheba smiled in amusement. "_My_ father used to say that."

"Well, we are the product of our parents' teachings . . ." he murmured, opening the pack. Sure enough, there were enough toys and electronic games to open a store, and certainly to keep Boxey and Zaden busy for a secton. "No pyjamas, no clean clothes, no toothbrush . . ."

"Well, I guess it's a good thing you looked," Sheba returned, crossing to the boy's room to begin gathering the missing items. Boxey was already running late. He wouldn't have time to pack as well as receive a lecture from his father on responsibility, especially in light of his two-night trip.

"How come the average seven-yahren-old seems to have the attention span of a Diptera?" Apollo muttered in frustration. "And a seriously brain-damaged, or senile one at that?"

"How come you're getting so worked up over it?" Sheba returned gently, returning to tuck a few more belongings into Boxey's pack. "This is supposed to be a fun secton-end for him. _And_ us."

Apollo sighed, loud and long, considering it.

"I had a friend on Caprica with a couple kids," Sheba continued. "She once told me that she was always more likely to lose her patience just before she tucked them into bed for the rest period. Especially if she was tired or stressed." She smiled slightly. "Then she'd spend the first twenty centons of her downtime regretting that she'd lost her temper, or hadn't had the perfect 'goodnight scene' that she thought she should be modelling."

"And?" Apollo asked warily.

"You've . . . you've been through a lot lately. The whole detente with the Cylons. Handling that tragedy with Mattoon.And then findingCaptain Byrne and his daughter on a disintegrating planet. Spending each day keeping our pilots on an even keel and coordinating integrated patrols with our former enemies . . ." She turned, slipping naturally into his arms, and running a hand down his bearded face as he instinctively embraced her. "Even _you_ need a little break, Oh Hero of the Fleet. A chance to just relax for a change." She glanced at the wall chrono. "And by my calculations, it should be starting any centon when Boxey bursts in that door. I have something _special_ arranged for us this evening," she whispered huskily, before leaning forward to teasingly nip at his bottom lip.

"Special, huh?" he murmured with a smile, running his fingers through the silky strands of her hair. "I hope we're staying in."

"Oh, yes," she replied. "So why don't you take a nice, hot turbo wash, pour us a couple glasses of that nectar I found, and let _me_ worry about getting Boxey to the shuttle on time? Hmm?"

"Sounds nice," he replied, well aware that occasionally the hefty responsibilities of a senior warrior's life did have a way of making him lose his perspective. What was the worst thing that could happen if his son _didn't_ brush his teeth or change his briefs for two days? Besides what Zaden's mother would think of him as a parent . . .

The door slid open, and Boxey burst inside with Muffit on his heels. "Hi Dad! Hi Mom! I'm ready!" he grinned hugely. Running over to his bag, he picked it up and slung it over his shoulder, not even noticing his father cast a disparaging glance at the wall chrono. 1616 centars. The shuttle would be leaving in fourteen centons.

"I'm going to take you to meet Zaden's mother at the shuttle, Boxey," Sheba inserted quickly. "Your Dad has a few things he needs to do."

"Okay," Boxey consented easily. He was practically vibrating he was so excited at the prospect of spending time with his friend. Not even pausing, he headed for the door. "Bye, Dad!"

"Not even a hug goodbye?" Apollo reminded him, grinning when the boy threw himself into his arms for a momentary embrace before running for the door once again, like a whirlwind briefly sweeping through.

"See you soon," Sheba smiled, as the door slid shut behind them.

----------

"I take it all back," Starbuck muttered, propping a container under his throbbing ankle to elevate it, as he settled down amidst the parts he had strewn all over the deck. He'd opened every storage container in the room, other than those ones perched high above him on the top shelf, that he simply didn't want to risk breaking his neck to get at. "You're not a big pile of mong, after all," he apologized, picking up an archaic transmitter that looked older than Sagan's great-grandfather. There were several parts missing, but he was sure he had seen a few things that could work, using a little initiative and the corroded tools that were so old they didn't even have a power source. "You're a big pile of mong with _potential_."

After inventorying the parts at hand, he was optimistic that he just might be able to rig a crude communication system. He even had the parts to boost the signal, knowing that it wouldn't otherwise penetrate the reinforced walls. The small air duct high above him was his capstone. There was at least one part of the room that wasn't fortified, and he should be able to concentrate the signal in that direction, although God only knew how many other large hunks of metal, cables, coils, or electric motors stood between his transmission and any transceiver in the area.

Of course, he couldn't rule out that by the time he had achieved all that, someone would have noticed his absence, and they would be looking for him anyway. After all, there were several people that knew what he was up to, not to mention countless others that would miss him. He sighed, not really looking forward to his "rescue". Of all the predicaments he had landed himself in, this would be right up there amongst the most humiliating. In the meantime, rather than drive himself crazy with boredom, he picked up the transmitter and began disassembling it for a rebuild. Never let it be said that Starbuck took things lying down.

The lights flickered above him, creating a strobe effect for a few short microns before dying altogether, leaving him in darkness.

"_Oh_, _frack_!"

----------

In the billet, Jolly threw in his hand, reaching forward to take a gulp of his grog before glancing at his chrono. "I'm getting the feeling that Starbuck isn't coming to his own card game."

"That may be fortuitous," Sargamesh opined, tossing in his hand as well.

Giles grinned, raking in a handful of cubits, lifting them up, and letting them filter between his fingers before he began piling them in front of him. His eyes glowed with pure glee. "I have to say, I'm not really missing him." A few others chuckled in accord.

"Do you think maybe something happened?" Cree suddenly asked, his brow crinkling in concern. "I mean it's just not like Starbuck to miss a game."

"Yeah, something probably happened, Cree. And I'm guessing she was blonde with blue eyes," Bojay snorted in amusement.

Cree smiled, picking up the cards and shuffling. "I guess you're right. How much trouble can a guy get into on his own Base Ship?"

Jolly sniffed. "Then again with Starbuck, you never know."

----------

Rebuilding a transmitter by feel, and then by the light of Starbuck's chrono, hadn't worked. He'd even briefly considered using his ignitor to build a fire, but couldn't find anything in the way of flammable material to use for fuel. Of course, the way his luck was going, he'd be just as likely to suffocate when the room filled with smoke, long before anybody responded to the fire alarm and showed up with boraton.

"_Idiot_!" he spat incredulously, pulling his boot off the storage crate, and grimacing when the blood rushed back to his foot. The boot had grown increasingly tighter, but at least was acting as the nearest thing he would find to a splint in this dump. Protectively keeping his injured foot off the deck, he slowly and carefully pushed himself up onto the other, using a storage crate as a necessary support to get him upright. Gingerly, he put some weight on his sore foot, grunting between his teeth as everything below his shin began to throb. Abruptly, he shifted his weight, while reaching inside his flight jacket to pull out his ignitor.

He flicked his trusty Flintex, _the Premium Name in Flame_, and it flared to life. He held it high over his head, hoping that the heat and the faint smoke would be enough to set off the fire alarm that was in every compartment aboard. He squinted, unable to see along the ceiling the telltale little red light that indicated the detector mechanism was functioning.

"That's because it's _dead_, Bucko," he sighed, lowering his arm and staring into the flame that a moment before had symbolized hope. "A corroded latch, at least five yahrens worth of dust, spare parts destined for a museum, and you're fool enough to think someone's maintained the fire alarm in here." More than likely the biosensors didn't work either.

Slowly, he lowered himself back to the deck, propping himself upright against the wall. With a feeling of impending doom, he began undoing the fasteners to his boot. After standing and putting some weight on the foot, his toes were beginning to go numb, and he was getting the worst feeling that his ankle wasn't merely twisted, it was broken.

But by comparison to his bladder that was about to explode, it was a relative inconvenience. Why couldn't he have been trapped in a turbo flush?

----------

Boomer paused before his quarters briefly. He'd spent a few centars catching up in the Duty Office, finally clearing one side of his desk, and leaving with a feeling of accomplishment that would last right up until he dragged his astrum back there tomorrow to tackle the rest. He smiled ruefully, actually considering popping down to the billet for old times sake, and checking out the card game. By now, they'd be far into their cubits, and further into their tankards, and it might actually be a good time for Boomer to sit in on a hand and catch up with the guys.

His door sliding open did away with any chance of that happening, as Brie opened her eyes in wide surprise as she hesitated in the entranceway.

"Oh! Hi, Boomer. I was just leaving." She stood aside to let him pass into his quarters, and he couldn't help but notice her flushed cheeks as she disappeared into the corridor.

"Have a good time?" he asked the room at large, moving inside and seeing Cassiopeia finishing tidying up, as Athena came out of the nursery. His wife's face lit up when she saw him, and any thought of spending time with the guys was swept from his mind.

"Oh, Boomer! You should see all the adorable gifts for the babies!" Athena enthused, one hand on her lower back. She grinned over at Cassie. "Not to mention the ones for _me_."

He crossed to embrace her, kissing her tenderly, before he turned her in his arms, beginning to slowly rub her back as he pulled her back against him. "I can't wait to see it _all_," he told her, touched by her happiness, and by her friend's consideration. "Thank you," he told Cassie.

"Oh, we had as much fun as Athena," Cassie admitted, her own cheeks a bit flushed. "I don't suppose you stopped by the game?"

Boomer shook his head. "Not this time." He glanced at his chrono. "It's probably still on."

"Probably," she agreed, reaching for her wrap. "Just as well. I have a few final study modules to get through before tomorrow." She crossed to them, embracing Athena for a long moment. When she stood back, Boomer was sure he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "I'm so happy for you both. For you _all_," she whispered.

"Thank you, Cassie. For your friendship, your kindness, your support," Athena replied, also suddenly teary. "For everything."

Nectar and raging hormones together were a dangerous thing, Boomer reckoned.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Cassiopeia's eyelids fluttered open, as she slowly stretched out a hand, and touched the cool sheets beside her. It was strange how the promise of a new day could be overshadowed by uncertainties and unfulfilled expectations. Despite the fact that she knew Starbuck was playing cards with his fellow pilots in the billet the night before, she had made it perfectly clear to him that after the baby shower, she would welcome his company. After all, it was getting increasingly more difficult for them to get together, with the demands of her studies and his duties, not to mention the additional time he had been spending with his father.

Then again, what was clear common Colonial Standard to her, might have been Gemonese Abstract to Starbuck. Like most men, he could be conveniently obtuse at times, and the subtle approach was generally wasted on him. Maybe he was taking it harder than he was admitting, the fact that she wanted to be a doctor. Perhaps there was some truth in the conjecture that while Starbuck could easily picture himself with a socialator or med tech, that pairing up with a physician was a bit much for his flyboy image.

"That's not fair, and you know it," she chastised herself, even while niggling doubts ran rampant over her pragmatism.

The truth was that she was so preoccupied with her studies and duties that there just didn't seem to be a lot of time or energy left to devote to Starbuck. Relationships had their ups and downs, she reminded herself. The ironic thing was that usually _their_ "downs" were the result of some Starbuck-driven drama. An ex-girlfriend—or two, if she counted Athena. A mission gone wrong. A crash landing. A termination accusation. A murderous shape-shifting alien.

Lords of Kobol, they had survived all _that_! Surely they could survive her becoming a doctor?

_Beep!!_

Hope fluttered in her chest, as she rose from her bed and crossed to the telecom. "Yes?" she asked expectantly. Just hearing his voice, and making some plans to get together after their shifts would make her feel better about this. It was probably a classic female example of her putting too much thought into what was going on in Starbuck's head, when in reality, he wasn't the least bit concerned about their relationship.

"Cassiopeia?"

She frowned, recognizing the med tech's voice. "Yes, Tone?"

"Is there any chance you could come in early? Dr. Salik is in ultra-sonic scrub for an emergency limb reattachment and he wants you to assist."

"What is it?"

"Accident on the Foundry Ship. A hand. Just arrived."

"I'll be right there, Tone."

"Thanks, Cassie."

She hadn't had much hands-on experience in microvascular surgery, but the field had fascinated her as a med tech. To be able to reattach a limb, or reconstruct a defect as the result of a trauma or disease . . . it was the specialized field she was seriously considering after she finished her residency. It would take three yahrens beyond the two yahrens she was starting shortly, even with the accelerated program necessitated by their situation. Yahrens of dedication and hard work, but to be able to come out the other end as a qualified microvascular surgeon would make it all worthwhile.

Even the sacrifices.

----------

The throbbing of Starbuck's savaged ankle awakened him, much as it had been doing every few centons most of the night. He shifted his leg on the storage container he had propped it up on, trying to keep the swelling down, now that it was free from the confines of his boot, simultaneously checking the time on his chronometer.

0600.

After all those yahrens in the service, his mental alarm chrono worked almost as well as the bustle of the billet when it came to awakening him. However, waking up in the tomblike darkness and dreary silence of the storage room, didn't exactly make a guy want to jump up and start the new day. Neither did his broken ankle, for that matter. He shifted, pulling his flight jacket out from under his head, and slowly shrugging into it as he sat up. The coldness of the deck had seeped into his bones during the night, leaving him chilled. He had actually mourned the absence of his military issued blanket without the body heat of a squadron of men to warm the room up to a more comfortable temperature. A gnawing hunger and thirst were also tormenting him. Worst of all, he knew he'd have to get up once again to use the impromptu "urinal" he had devised from a watertight storage container he had put to one side. Either that or master urination from the supine position. In retrospect, it might be the most interesting part of his day, as he lay there in the murky darkness waiting to be found.

_Where the frack was everyone?_

_----------  
_

How often could Apollo take the precious few centons that he had afforded himself this morning, to just lie there quietly and watch his wife sleep? He smiled, sure that Starbuck would have all kinds of quick-witted, and no doubt off-colour, remarks to make about a man who would sooner enjoy the peace and quiet of his innermost thoughts, while he luxuriated in a perfect moment, rather than wake the tousled beauty at his side.

It was times like this that made him realize that no matter how insane life became, as long as he had Sheba by his side to keep him grounded, that he could cope with damn near anything else. Sagan's sake, he hadn't realized how much his power cells needed recharging, until he had awakened this morning feeling curiously refreshed. One idyllic night with Sheba—all talk of duty formally forbidden—it had been more important than he had first realized. They had re-established that intense connection that only lovers share, not even aware it had been waning.

For a centon, he could almost imagine living a life without Cylons, without lasers or Vipers, so secure and optimistic he felt beside her just now. Fleetingly, he tried to imagine waking up with Sheba each morning, perhaps on Earth, with the sun shining through their window, not having to think about defending a Fleet or surviving an enemy attack. Enjoying the simple pleasures of life in some tranquil setting of quiet solitude. _One day . . ._

Beside him, Sheba stirred, stretching like a felix, and then innately curling up against him again. He gathered her close, breathing in the fragrance of her silky hair as her eyes slowly fluttered open.

"Good morning," he murmured, leaning close, into her ear. "Sleepyhead."

"Mm hmm," she replied, snuggling that much closer, and burrowing her head into his neck.

Tenderly, he smoothed her hair, kissing the top of her head. "It's a beautiful day," he whispered.

She opened her eyes, looking up at him curiously, before nodding slightly and smiling beguilingly. "It certainly is."

----------

The brightness that abruptly flooded the tiny room almost knocked Starbuck's eyeballs out. He grunted loudly, shielding his face with his arm, as he waited for his vision to adapt, while pondering why he suddenly had light again. Power fluctuations? A circuitry problem that had never been identified? It was entirely believable on this old bucket. Or maybe it was a rerouting of the power supply?

Sagan, the ship was so ancient that anything could be possible. Such problems were better left to people who really cared, like the techs responsible for maintaining this old bird. He'd be sure to file a requisition for them to figure it out just as soon as he got out of there.

In triplicate, of course.

That decided, he sat up and reluctantly took a look at his ankle, which he had largely ignored since last night, after spending the better part of a centar trying to carefully pry it out of his strangulating boot, doing his heroic best not to scream like a little girl. And failing. He sucked in a breath between his teeth, as he realized the extremity had almost doubled in size despite his efforts to elevate it. A brilliant purple and yellow hue, with subtle transitions into a light maroon, covered most of his foot now, and extended up under his pant leg. Both sides of his foot fluctuated between tingly and totally numb. _Definitely broken, Bucko._

As if in reaction to the dismal confirmation, he became suddenly light-headed, nausea washing over him, even as he reflexively lay back down. His mouth watered uncomfortably, as an acrid burn rose in his throat. The good news was he hadn't eaten anything since midday the day before, so he was unlikely to toss his mushies. The bad news was his stomach was trying to do just that, regardless. He drew a ragged breath, waiting for the lights behind his closed eyes to stop sparkling, and the room to stop spinning as he willed his stomach to cease rolling like turbulent waves rolling on a stormy ocean.

_Thanks for that imagery._

Finally, he opened his eyes, wiping the bead of sweat from his face. His gaze fell back on those storage bins on the top shelf that he couldn't reach . . . unless he stacked some containers on top of each other and risked climbing up there with a broken ankle. It was rash, reckless, just the other side of crazy . . . the very things he was generally known for. He sighed, as they mocked him from above. _Nanner, nanner, nanner_! Yeah, it would be just his luck that within the mocking crates lurked a direct comm link to the Bridge, some painkillers, and endless bottles of refreshing water that could ease his dry mouth and parched throat. There might even be a few issues of _Buxom Beauties_ to keep him entertained until help arrived.

Finally, he glanced over to the pile of electronic felgercarb that he had swept to the side in frustration the night before, when the lights had gone out. _C'mon, Bucko! You can lie here fantasizing and feeling sorry for yourself, or you can do something constructive to get out of here!_ It would be marginally less embarrassing than having to be rescued, after all.

Slowly, he sat himself up, picking up the old transmitter and once again beginning to rebuild it. At least it would pass the time, making the solitude a _little_ more tolerable. Having spent most of his life sharing quarters in orphanages, the Academy or numerous billets, it reminded him of how much he disliked being on his own. Being shut in on four sides made it even worse. Even the previous darkness was better than the immuring presence of those walls closing in on him. Darkness, like the expanses of space that he loved so well, had no definable boundaries. It was calming. However, being trapped like this took him back to a couple juvenile detention centres, Baltar's Base Ship with Lucifer watching him, the Proteus Prison, the _Galactica's_ brig, and that bloody detention cell in the Guardhouse on Brylon Five. _Oh, don't forget the Hole in the Katorrgah, pal_. If it hadn't been for Apollo and Boomer's timely arrival, he probably would have died there. And more recently, when he'd been forced to crawl through the cramped confines of the duct vents to act as a sniper against Sergeant Mattoon, he'd had to spend a long stretch of time watching and waiting. Weirdly, the close confines hadn't fazed him then, not like they were threatening to do now. However, this was different. In the duct vents, he was totally distracted by the job at hand, and if something had gone wrong, they knew where he was. Unlike now.

By now, surely to God _someone_ would have missed him. Wouldn't they? He could see that maybe one evening could go by with his friends and lover not noticing his absence. But by now, someone would be wondering why he hadn't shown up at his own card game, or why he hadn't arrived later at Cassie's quarters, or why he hadn't shuttled over to meet his father today as planned. Yeah, any centon now help would arrive.

In fact, help would arrive in ten, nine, eight, seven . . . .

----------

Chameleon sighed, glancing at his chrono once again. _You were gone for over twenty yahrens, old man. Holding it against Starbuck that he didn't show up this once is hardly fair. Most likely he's spending his furlon with Cassiopeia, and simply forgot about getting together with you, which is just how it should be with young love_._ Remember how it was, eh? _

After all, Starbuck had been hovering over him almost protectively since Claudia had gone out of his life, and back to Baltar, as though he was somehow afraid that his father's loss would become his undoing. That he'd revert to his previous dubious pastimes and indiscretions. Or, closer to the mark, that he'd just give up.

Little did his son know that Chameleon was made of sterner stuff than _that._ He'd lost the love of his life in Umbra, had spent twenty yahrens trying to forget her, and had then been fortunate enough to not only find his son, but to later on meet Claudia. As far as the chapters of his life went, the first and the third were stellar. He'd just as soon forget the yahrens in-between.

He tossed back the last of his drink, and slowly rose. Looking around, he headed for the telecom, deciding to leave Starbuck a message, and tell him they could do it another time. Hopefully, the boy was having fun. By the Lilium Moons, after what they'd gone through the last few sectars, he deserved to!

----------

_Ninety-nine pieces of mong on the deck, ninety-nine pieces of mong, find a fit, make it transmit, ninety-eight pieces of mong on the deck . . . _

Starbuck shook his head, looking dubiously at the partially rebuilt transmitter. He was still missing a few pieces, and lacked the proper tools, but it was slowly and tediously coming together, this archaic piece of electronic felgercarb that looked like an old instructional period science project from his childhood. The one he'd used to hack into the overhead comm system in his primary school, inputting an digitally altered sentence or two that he'd recorded of the head master, and dismissing class early on a bright and sunny day before summer break. He grunted, figuring this particular transmitter would be about as useful as a screen door on a Battlestar, when it came to getting him out of here. Still, he wasn't ready to concede defeat. Starbuck _never_ conceded defeat! Once again his gaze flickered upwards to the mystery bins on the top shelf, as he mused what might be inside.

_A fumarello, cold Sagittarian ale, and a Colonial laser._

He let out a sigh, willing to settle for a few crucial electronic parts just now, although some water wouldn't go unappreciated. Unable to get the idea out of his head, he knew he _had_ to go up there. Okay, so maybe there wasn't a direct line to the Bridge in those oddly clean-looking crates, but it _would_ follow that there would probably be more technical equipment that just might come in handy. Maybe even his missing parts. He raked a hand through his hair, weighing the odds.

_Well, you always did favour the point spread on the underdaggits, Bucko_.

Carefully stretching his injured leg out before him, he tucked his other foot under him, using a crate lid as an impromptu crutch, and quickly pushed himself upwards before he thought better of the idea. Pain raged through his foot, and he groaned aloud, leaning against the bulkhead, while he tried to adapt to the throbbing pressure.

"Frack, frack, frack . . ." he muttered, aware it wasn't feeling any better as the microns passed. Indeed, once again, nausea swept over him, and he could feel a cold sweat covering his body. He sucked in a ragged breath, wiping his clammy forehead with a shaking hand while he used the old lid to support his weight as he struggled forward.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he started sliding storage bins against the shelf, keeping in mind that if he fell and broke his neck—along with his ankle—that he'd really be in trouble . . . _Actually, you'd be dead, Bucko!_ Which might be a completely _new_ realm of trouble, or none at all, depending on your perspective. It was always good to keep your options open.

Balancing his uninjured knee on a container, he hefted another atop of it, building a sort of stairway to the top shelf. It looked so secure that Sagan's _grandmother_ could have made it to the top . . .and if she suddenly showed up, he'd be willing to let her go before him just to prove what an engineering marvel it was.

Unfortunately, Old Grandma Sagan—like everybody else he had been wondering about since yesterday—didn't enter on cue. Or off it. Without any other choice he started climbing the few levels to the top, pausing at the top, intending to remove the lid from the first mystery bin and reveal the treasures inside.

It was locked.

"Oh," he groaned. "Why did I figure it would be?"

----------

Boomer looked up from his data pad at the sound of a light rap of knuckles against the door. Apollo was framed in the doorway of the Duty Office, leaning against the bulkhead casually, arms crossed, shaking his head.

"Furlon. It's a _leave_, Boomer." He smiled. "You need to _leave_ the duty office to take your leave, buddy."

"Oh, yeah." He stretched, stifling a yawn. "Is that how it works?"

"That's the rumour." Apollo pushed away from the doorframe.

Boomer snorted, leaning back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head as he swung his legs up on the desk. "That's the official story, yeah. But hey, you're one to talk. You have a computron under your pillow, and recite progress reports to Boxey to get him to go to sleep."

"Totally untrue."

Boomer raised an eyebrow.

"I program Muffit to do it."

"You would." He looked from Apollo, to the last of the work piled on his desk.

Apollo chuckled, closing the door behind him, and taking the other seat. "Behind, I take it?"

"You know how it can be. And it's amazing how much work I can do without anybody around to interrupt me."

Apollo nodded. He knew only too well what the difference between an open and closed door in the Duty Office could be. If they could see him, inevitably, someone would drop in with yet one more issue that needed the strike captain's attention. Now.

"I just want to be on top of everything," Boomer continued. "Cassiopeia told us that with twins, it's not unusual for them to come early."

"Oh?"

"Apparently, fifty percent of them are premature."

"Ahh," Apollo nodded his understanding, before asking, "Did you make the game last night?"

Boomer shook his head. "No, I passed."

"Me too. I sort of expected Starbuck would be showing up this morning, giving me a hard time about it." The strike captain smiled whimsically. "Used to be that he considered it sacrilege for one of us to miss his games."

"Exactly. If I wasn't losing my cubits to him in a game, I was spotting him for his next one," Boomer chuckled. "How it could be that he was holding half of _my_ wages on sectons end, and was broke by First Day was beyond me."

"I think it was beyond _Starbuck_, too," Apollo grinned, surreptitiously looking over his shoulder, and then feigning a look of relief.

"Oh, don't give up on him just _yet_," Boomer chuckled. "I think he mentioned something about going to see Chameleon today. Something about helping Commander Byrne and his daughter integrate into the Fleet." The two just looked at each other for a long moment. "Yeah. There's gotta be a scam in there, somewhere. But don't worry. He'll be along."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Apollo replied with a smile as he glanced at his chrono and climbed to his feet.

"Patrol?" Boomer asked.

"Yeah," Apollo replied, opening the door. "New cadet trainee. Sahurunwas. Got top marks." He paused. "You know my sister is going to blame _me_ if you spend all of your furlon down here catching up on your work."

Boomer grinned, falling back on an old favourite. "You _are_ the captain."

"That's why they pay me the capacious cubits." Apollo raised a hand in farewell. "Later, Boomer.

----------

Not only were the locked storage containers conspicuously clean—leading Starbuck to suspect they hadn't been there all that long—but they were also damned heavy. The longer he thought about it, the more it just didn't add up. His curiosity outweighed his discomfort, at least for the moment, and he quickly devised a plan to get them down. He resorted to a less than graceful solution, scooting down his makeshift "staircase" on his astrum while muscling the bins alongside him, one at a time. By now his head was beginning to throb dully, in tune with his pulsating ankle. Alternatively, he would feel light-headed when he stood up too fast, and at this point his perception of "fast" wasn't about to break any records, even among crippled snails. Likely, it had something to do with the fact that he hadn't had anything to drink in over a day, his tongue reminded him, as it stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Finally down, he collapsed on the deck, panting with exertion. By now, his ankle was going supernova, and he was half ways considering amputation with a tylinium blade, not that he _had_ one, but he might be able to rig up something. Desperate for relief, he sat up, using both hands to carefully cradle his leg, elevating it once again on an empty crate. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the ankle now seemed to weigh more than both bins put together. Sweat pooled in uncomfortable places, and his hair was plastered to his head. He shrugged out of his flight jacket, before lying down to catch his breath, dropping into a boneless heap.

Several centons later, after waiting for the pain to ebb, he finally pushed himself upward. The locking mechanisms on the containers were sophisticated, requiring a coded combination of unknown digits. He sighed in frustration, scooting over sideways to take a closer look now that they were directly under the light. Yeah, the lock was advanced. . . but it had been attached to the standard storage bins in a crude manner. In fact . . . he picked up a prybar, lowering his injured foot back to the deck for the excruciating moment it took to prop himself up on his other knee. He drove the butt of the metal bar into the lock with all his strength. _Bang, bang! _ The lock crashed to the deck in pieces.

Crude, but effective.

Finally, it was the moment of truth. What magnificent treasures lay inside? Water wouldn't be so bad. He let out a breath, once again lifting his leg up on his designated crate, preparing for the dramatic unveiling. _Might as well be comfortable, pal, at least within reason. _He lifted the lid, peering inside . . .

And frowned in bewilderment, before cold dread wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed.

----------

Barton chuckled, as he watched them wandering in one or two at a time. There was little in life as debilitating as a Colonial Warrior trying to squeeze a sectons worth of pleasure into a couple days worth of furlon. Drinking, gambling, womanising, triad matches . . . the rest of Red Squadron was stumbling in, looking like they had partaken of them all in excess, yet had survived to tell the tales.

"Who's up for first patrol tomorrow?" Ensign Kamalias asked, rubbing his hand over his reddened eyes.

"Starbuck and Boomer. Guess they're taking it easy on us," Barton replied with a look at the duty roster. "Not that I'm complaining, you understand."

"Either that or it's Red Squadron's turn to try our hand at one of those integrated patrols." He made a face. "I can see Captain Apollo starting with those two."

"You _think_? I wonder if Starbuck knows."

"Danged if I know. I haven't seen him for the entire furlon," Barton shrugged. "Funny."

"Ten to one, he's with his lady," Lieutenant Boyle replied with a meaningful leer. "Not that I could blame him, truth to tell."

"Oh, I heard him mention something about seeing his father," Ensign Jeb piped up.

"I'll bet he parked his astrum on the _Rising Star_, and is still there," Kamalias suggested.

"I'll take that bet!" said Jeb, flashing a coin in the other's direction.

"I'm in!" said the ensign.

"Cough up some cubits!" grinned Jeb, tossing his down on the table.

----------

"_Ohhhh . . ." _Why couldn't it have been a lifetime supply of whipped topping? It would certainly put a different spin on this . . .

He still couldn't believe it. A storage crate full of pressurized tylinium canisters, that in theory could have contained just about anything, but the only time that Starbuck had seen anything remotely like them, at least in an industrial sense, had been while learning about chemical warfare either at the Academy or yahrens later, while in the service. For the most part, chemical warfare was a thing of the past, most battles occurring in space between capital ships and their fighters. But centi-yahrens earlier, before global defence systems had been adequately developed, the Cylons had certainly experimented with a variety of lethal chemicals and organisms on their enemies, human and otherwise. Entire cities, hundreds of thousands of Colonial citizens at one go, had perished when exposed to the toxins, the historical archives revealing the gruesome details of their horrible deaths.

He let out a ragged breath, while picking up one of the canisters. About the size of a Life Station oxygen tank, but stubbier, it was heavy, but probably more due to the tylinium constitution of the tank than the contents. It had a valve on it with a universal connector, which opened up a wide multitude of possibilities as to how it was supposed to be discharged. What the everliving frack were these doing _here_? It was clear that they weren't old relics, loaded aboard yahrens ago back in the Colonies, and long forgotten with the rest of this felgercarb. Someone had recently stowed these here. The lack of dust and grime on them made that obvious. It was the "why" and the "who" of it all that were scaring the pogees out of him. Not to mention whether this was a lethal or a debilitating agent, a persistent or a non-persistent variety. Was this meant to kill people, or just make them helpless long enough to . . . to _what_?

Was this Sergeant Mattoon all over again? Someone else a few Vipers short of a squadron who had gone off the deep end, free-falling into some kind of sociopath nightmare? Or had a few of Commander Maris' Special Forces nut-jobs been resurrected, awakening from a dormant state when their "programming" suddenly kicked in? _Sagan, why limit yourself, pal?_ _Those are just the most recent choices_. He'd met more than a few bedlamites in the Fleet, besides them. Of course, there was always the unlikely possibility that command knew about this. After all, they'd known about Over-Lieutenant Korax of the Ziglaki Empire. _Don't go down that flight path . . . not again._

Then where had this stuff come from? Had it been formulated somewhere here in the Fleet? Had it been picked up on Brylon Five? He looked the cylinder in his hands over carefully. The usual military identification codes were missing, not even a "CAUTION" or "DANGER" to be seen. Or were these left over from yahrens before, carefully stored, until the right moment came along?

Lords of Kobol, just how close to the_ right _moment was he? _Leave it to you to stumble into something like this, Bucko . . . _

Carefully, he replaced the canister in the storage bin, equally lacking in markings, letting out a deep breath. Now, more than ever, he needed to get that transmitter working, before whoever was responsible for the tylinium canisters showed up to lay claim to them. It was possible that this was an isolated stash, but it could also be Fleetwide.

But _whose _stash? Something Matoon had planned, as a backup? Perhaps there _had _been others in on the plot with him. Or maybe . . .

Hey, maybe it was being locked in a storage cupboard with what could be enough chemical toxins to potentially terminate every man, woman and child on the _Galactica_, but suddenly he was a little nervous. Lords, he hated it when the stakes were suddenly raised, and he didn't even know what game he was playing, let alone who was dealing.

----------

Bone tired.

Eight centars assisting in surgery, meticulously reattaching and repairing arteries, veins, nerves, tendons, bones . . . an entire hand, all visualized through microscopic goggles. Then Dr. Salik had suggested they experiment with an innovative new temporary surgical implant that could monitor both arterial and venous flow of the reattached limb, ensuring the blood flow and drainage were adequate. It was insurance for their efforts. The only problem was that not a single med tech in the Life Station was familiar with it.

A centar later, everyone present had had a crash course in the Doppler Probe, including physicians and med techs. Lords, the patient knew almost as much about it as the medical staff.

However, the intensive monitoring requirements meant the Life Station was understaffed, and, as usual, overworked. Cassie had volunteered to stay on and extend her shift, anxious to see her patient through those first crucial centars.

Extending her shift had somehow transformed into a "double" shift, and by now, as she stumbled into her quarters, all she could think about was a turbo wash and her bed. Fleetingly, she realized that Starbuck hadn't even dropped by to enquire as to when she would be off duty.

Apparently, she wasn't high on his list of priorities right now.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

It was the third time that Boomer had found himself walking completely around his Viper, giving it a "once over". In exactly ten microns, Starbuck would be officially late for patrol, and while there had been a time long ago when the seemingly insouciant lieutenant would routinely leap off the turbo lift at the final micron with his hair still damp as he tucked in his tunic, while fairly sailing for his ship, as far as the Red Leader was concerned, this was out of character for his friend.

A couple of the hangar crew glanced his way curiously. It was Red Squadron's first integrated Cylon/Colonial Warrior patrol, and the deputy squadron leader hadn't showed. Boomer could just see the rumours ready to start flying around this tub. While Starbuck, like most of them, had initially reacted in incredulity after the détente with Baltar's Cylons, to put it mildly, he had finally managed to come around, at least in public, keeping his opinions to himself where it mattered, while venting to his heart's content while with his close friends. Lords of Kobol, Colonel Tigh would strip and module him when he learned the news. Twice! After Apollo was finished lambasting him, that was.

"Where in Hades hole are you, Bucko?" Boomer murmured with a frown, as his chrono counted down. He sighed, marching towards the comm system, following protocol. "Bridge? This is Lieutenant Boomer. I need an overhead comm for Lieutenant Starbuck to report to Alpha Bay on the double."

"_Affirmative, Lieutenant_."

"And have Lieutenant Doyle and Flight Sergeant Barton report to Alpha Bay to stand by," Boomer added. If Starbuck didn't show up in the next centon, then something was wrong. In his gut, he just _knew_ that Starbuck wouldn't pull this kind of stunt at this point in his career. Conversely, if he _did_ make an appearance, Apollo and Tigh would have to get in line, because Boomer had every intention of forcibly stuffing Starbuck into a missile pod under his left wing, and launching him into a world of disciplinary punishments that he wouldn't ever forget.

----------

His leg exploded in pain, and Starbuck jolted himself awake, as complete and utter agony enveloped him. He gasped for a breath, realizing his foot had fallen to the deck when he had turned over in his sleep, his astrum probably terminally numb from having reclined on it for . . . for almost _two complete days_! At some point during the usual rest period, he had unconsciously succumbed to an exhausted sleep, the incomplete transmitter forgotten on his lap. Shakily, he repositioned his throbbing leg, wondering how it could possibly feel twice as bad as the day before. He shifted his weight absently, and wondered if there was an indelible imprint of his astrum in the deck, or if it was just his imagination.

Blearily, he glanced at his chrono. He had to blink several times to finally focus on the digits, after he rubbed the crusts from his eyes. Lords, he had actually managed to get several centars of sleep, although his intention had been to finish the transmitter and get the frack out of there. He sighed as he ran his hand over a couple days growth of mind was hazy, as though it was full of mushies, and his head throbbed dully. Sagan, he would just about _kill_ for a java right now. It seemed as though at some point during the night, every bit of grime and dust in the storage room had infiltrated his mouth, leaving it as dry as a Borellian desert, and just about as palatable. His skin felt hot and tight, as though it was a size too small, while his stomach ached with a conspicuous emptiness that felt more like a faint nausea than hunger. The very thought of food was revolting.

At least by now it would be official that he was missing. Absent without leave, technically. If nobody had taken his absence seriously during the last two days, then this would be the turning point. Ironically, it would probably be Security looking for him, rather than his friends. At this point, he didn't much care. In fact, the first Blackshirt through the hatch, he was going to give him a great big hug of gratitude, whether it was appreciated or not.

In the meantime, he decided he'd skip morning primaries and his usual turbo wash and shave, and get straight back to the transmitter . . . _Nose to the grindstone, Bucko._

_----------  
_

Adama looked up expectantly as Boomer made his way purposely across the Bridge, Apollo and Sheba just behind him. When Starbuck hadn't responded to an overhead comm ordering him to the launch bay, Lieutenant Doyle and Flight Sergeant Barton had taken Boomer and Starbuck's patrol, leaving the Red leader to track down his errant Deputy Squadron Leader. Not surprisingly, he'd picked up a couple extended family members along the way.

"Well?" Adama asked.

Boomer blew out a breath, looking nonplussed. "Starbuck's missing, Commander. Nobody's seen him for two days."

Adama reined in his disbelief. Starbuck was practically family. How could they have not noticed his absence in the course of a couple days?

"We checked with Cassiopeia, and she said that she thought he was going to stop by her quarters a couple nights ago after Athena's shower. She just assumed the card game had run late when he didn't arrive back there," Sheba continued.

"But he never arrived at that card game," Apollo elaborated. "I checked in with Jolly and Giles. At the time, those guys assumed he was with Cassiopeia. And I double-checked the terminal in his office. None of the reports and evals he was supposed to do have been finished, and he hasn't logged in for almost three days."

Adama raised his eyebrows, moving to the next logical choice. "Chameleon?"

"There's no record of Starbuck ever leaving the _Galactica__,"_ Boomer returned.

"What about the transport device?" asked Tigh. "Could Starbuck . . . I mean if the machine was on?"

"I checked, Colonel," replied Boomer. "The whole system has been off-line for over a secton. We've also checked the transport logs. I even checked the airlocks. He's somewhere aboard," Boomer replied. "Greenbean is trying to contact Chameleon on the Senior Ship to see if he's heard anything."

"Somewhere aboard the _Galactica_?" Tigh echoed, his brows knit in annoyance. Admittedly, it was a big ship, with a lot of out-of-the-way places one could find oneself in. "Then why isn't he responding . . .?"

"We're assuming that he can't," Boomer returned pragmatically. "For whatever reason."

Tigh glanced at Adama. "I recently reviewed Starbuck's latest scheduled psychological and physical assessment, Commander." Due to his history of Combat Stress Reaction, the lieutenant had evaluations every three sectars, and would continue to do so until the Chief Medical Officer was satisfied. "After all he's been through, Dr. Salik _did_ have some concerns that the lieutenant was obviously still drinking, although Starbuck claimed to have it 'under control'."

"Commander, you _know_ that Starbuck has moved past all that," Apollo immediately came to his friend's defence. "He's no more likely to be drowning his sorrows than me or Boomer."

"Apollo . . ." Adama began, raising a hand to temper his son's outburst.

"I completely agree, sir," Boomer averred.

"I'm merely raising it as a possibility, Apollo. Boomer," Tigh explained. "You can count me as among those who would rather not believe it, but we have to consider all the possibilities. Do you have any other leads?"

Apollo drew in a long breath, exchanging a glance with Boomer and then nodding, somewhat mollified. "Ensign Jeb said he saw Starbuck at his locker in the billet two days ago. He figured it was about 1300 centars."

"Then maybe we should start there?" Sheba suggested.

"Perhaps . . . Apollo and Boomer should," Adama suggested discreetly.

Sheba smiled in amusement. "It's just a billet, Commander."

"It's the _bachelor_ officer's quarters, Sheba," Apollo replied diplomatically.

"Yeah, you don't want our bachelors to lose their aura of mystique, do you?" Boomer asked, remembering being visited once in the middle of his rest period by Apollo, Starbuck and their respective ladies, and suddenly realizing he was at a disadvantage as he stood there in his briefs talking to them.

"Oh, believe me, they lost it a long time ago, Boomer," Sheba countered lightly.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," Apollo murmured with a glance at his wife.

"Probably because you had something to do with it, buddy," Boomer informed him wryly.

"Find Starbuck," Adama told the young people. "And keep us informed."

"Yes, Commander," they replied in concert, before turning to go.

"And Apollo?"

"Yes?"

"Take Cassiopeia with you, if she's available. With a med kit. Just in case."

"Sir."

----------

"Okay, one more time . . ." Starbuck murmured, thinking the stubborn circuitry through once again, but more than aware that he was having trouble processing what would usually be simple information; the sort of electronic ideas kids Boxey's age got in primary school.

By his calculations—done on all ten fingers and five of his toes—on a Battlestar in a controlled environment, he should have been able to go several days without water, before any confusion had had begun to set in. Then again, admittedly he hadn't figured in the complication of his broken ankle, and the angry looking red streaks that were making their way up his leg. His skin was hot, but dry . . . probably because he was too dehydrated at this point to break a sweat. He'd already pulled off his tunic, his survival training kicking in to tell him that he needed to cool down a temperature that had to be well above normal.

_Maybe you can rig up a rotary to cool yourself off when you're done with the transmitter . . . Right after you order an iced Tropica Sunset from the barkeep._

"Yeah, right," he murmured, once again forcing his attention back to the transmitter. "So . . . if I connect the data buffer's output to the transmitter module left/right control pin, and connect the output of the receiver module back to the data input through the buffer circuit . . ." He frowned, as his hand shook while he manipulated the small tools to do his bidding. "_C'mon_ . . ."

Behind him, where he was now leaning up against the hatch, he heard a noise, and felt a slight vibration. As though someone was trying the door.

"HEY!" he immediately yelled, dropping the transmitter back into his lap, and picking up the prybar to bang it against the hatch a couple times. The sound probably wouldn't carry through from the insulated room, but if someone was actually out there, trying to get in, they should be able to detect _something_. "_Yo!_ _I need help in here_!"

The pivotal question was who were they? Colonial Security? Apollo and Boomer? Or the guys that were storing the gas canisters?

Right now, he'd settle for the guy with the _Tropica Sunset_.

He shifted his astrum to one side of the hatch, tightening his grip on the prybar, just in case.

-----------

Starbuck's locker was typically that of the average warrior, a breed known for packing light and staying mobile. Standard issue uniforms, his dress uniform, toiletries, smoking paraphernalia, and a small wooden chest in the bottom containing his worldly treasures. The only thing out of place, at least in Apollo's mind, was the Colonial laser and holster, which is why the captain had had to use his security override code to get into the normally accessible locker.

"Why would he lock up his laser?" Boomer asked, his words echoing the strike captain's thoughts as he came back from checking Starbuck's messages. They had all theorized that Starbuck had come up against something he couldn't handle on his own, but now this made him wonder otherwise.

"He _was_ on furlon," Sheba replied.

"The only times that I've seen Starbuck lock up his laser, are when he's having a formal dinner at the commander's, he's playing triad, or he's turbo-washing or sleeping," Boomer replied.

"Boomer's right. Since being charged for Ortega's termination, Starbuck doesn't just leave his laser sitting around unattended," Cassie nodded. "And since I've known him, he's rarely without it.

"Did he have any messages?" Apollo asked.

"Just one from Chameleon," Boomer replied, feeling a little guilty that none of them had thought it necessary to check on him despite noticing his absence. "As we already figured out, Starbuck didn't make it over to the Senior Ship yesterday."

"Well, where does that leave _us_?" Sheba returned, glancing at the box in the bottom of the locker that no one had touched so far. She picked it up, frowning, feeling oddly as though she was violating Starbuck's privacy. So she handed it to her husband.

Apollo nodded, releasing the small clasp and opening the lid. A small case inside, which he knew held Starbuck's military medals, sat on top of a handful of holoptics and mementos. He rifled through them, not finding anything out of the ordinary, or helpful, before pausing to show Boomer a strip of old shots of the three of them, prior to the Destruction, faces covered in goofy expressions, crammed into one of those cheap holoptic booths on Pineus.

"Didn't you lose about a secton's pay about a centar after that?" Boomer reminisced, taking the strip and shaking his head at the amusing poses of three slightly inebriated young men on a well-deserved furlon.

"Uh huh," Apollo nodded. "Betting on one of Starbuck's systems."

"Couldn't lose?" Cassie smiled slightly.

"So he said."

"Skipper?" a voice from the billet entrance came, as Jolly walked in. "Any luck on Starbuck?"

"No, Jolly."

"Look, I don't know if it will help, but I just remembered something that at the time didn't really seem all that relevant . . . but now . . ."

Apollo nodded expectantly.

"I saw Starbuck in the mess about midday the day of the game," the lieutenant continued. "He mentioned something about losing a bet and having to pay up. He didn't look too happy about it."

"You didn't ask about the particulars, Jolly?" Boomer enquired. Starbuck hadn't mentioned it to him. Cassie and Apollo also shook their heads, apparently unaware of the circumstances surrounding this mystery bet.

"Oh, I did, but he wasn't exactly forthcoming, and seemed to be in a hurry," Jolly explained. "You'd think he was about to go clean out waste pipes with his toothbrush."

"No details?"

"Sorry, Apollo," Jolly replied. "As I said, at the time it just seemed inconsequential. If I knew he was walking into some kind of questionable situation and needed back-up, I would have been with him in a micron."

"Of course, you would have," Apollo replied, squeezing the other man's shoulder, and wondering how settling a bet could have transformed into one missing Colonial Warrior. Would this have happened if Starbuck had still been in Blue Squadron, or would his old friends have been more attuned to his absence? After all, his social circle seemed to still centre on his old squadron mates, not his new ones, Boomer being the sole exception to that rule. "Look, ask around and see if anybody else heard about this bet. Starbuck doesn't usually keep that kind of action under wraps."

"That's for sure" Jolly nodded. "Usually, he's dragging the rest of us into his bets to increase the take." He smiled ruefully and added, "_His_ take."

"Has he been involved in any disputes or disagreements lately? Is there anybody out there harbouring any hard feelings against Starbuck?" Sheba asked.

"Not enough to do him any harm," Jolly replied. "In fact, he's been pretty up, ever since we came back from rescuing the Earth guy. And hey, you know Starbuck. He shoots his mouth off now and then, but generally gets along with just about everybody. He doesn't like to burn his bridges."

Apollo nodded, only too well aware of that. Starbuck had admitted once that he liked to keep the number of people around him as large as possible. It was that disposable orphan mentality that he had cultivated since childhood. Don't isolate yourself, and you'll never _really_ be alone, no matter who leaves you behind. "We need to go back and trace Starbuck's activities for the previous few days before he went missing. Who did he see? What was he doing?" Apollo plotted. "Check with his squadron mates, the hangar crew, support staff, Chameleon, anyone that he comes in contact with on a regular basis."

Boomer nodded. "This could take a while."

"Not if we go through channels and put out the word that Starbuck could be in trouble. We'll have every warrior and support person that Starbuck knows helping us out," Sheba suggested. "We're on a _ship_. Someone _has_ to have seen him."

"Right. Let's try to stay calm, and keep things in perspective," Apollo reminded them with a look at Cassiopeia. She looked fragile enough to shatter. "Right now we're assuming that he's in some kind of trouble, but it's also possible that we're overlooking something obvious."

"Like what?" Cassie asked, hopefully.

"All I can say is that after knowing Starbuck for over a deca-yahren, I can confidently say that he has a knack for finding trouble, be it big or small."

"Hmm," Boomer grunted. "I think he'd defend himself by saying that _Trouble_ has a knack for finding _him_. Hey, for all we know, he got trapped in a service turbo-lift that was shut down for repairs. I could see him ignoring any warning signs, or just being too preoccupied to notice them."

"Exactly," Apollo nodded at his friend and brother-in-law. "It could be as simple as that."

"I'll check in with maintenance," Boomer said. "There have been a few teething troubles, since we left Brylon Station. We should also check with the Bridge. If they look back over the routine scans of the internal sensors for bio scans of the normally unoccupied areas, something might come up."

"Good idea, Boomer. Let's split up the leads, and stay in touch," Apollo took charge, assigning them, as he returned Starbuck's box to his locker and closed the door. He reached for Cassie's hand as she turned to go. "Don't worry, Cassiopeia. We know for sure that he's aboard. Sooner or later, we'll find him."

"I know," she smiled tremulously. She had started to think that Starbuck was drifting away from her, instead, the truth was she was so busy with her own _ambitions_ and duties, that she hadn't taken the time to discover that her lover was missing as she wallowed in a resentment of her own creation. It left her feeling self-absorbed, and disappointed in herself. And it was a classic case of a woman wasting far too much time speculating what was going on in her man's mind, instead of just asking him outright. Naturally, she was currently following that up with immersing herself in guilt and regret, as any self-respecting woman would do. Tears pricked her eyes.

_You know better than that, Cassie! A lot better!_

Sheba gave her a hug, holding her tightly for a long moment, before telling her, "We'll probably find him trapped in the storage room behind the OC, smoking a fumarello, and sampling the grog."

"Good point. Did anyone check the OC?" Boomer quipped, putting an arm around the med tech, and giving her a quick squeeze. "Talk about overlooking the obvious."

"I volunteer," Jolly spoke up far too quickly, his timing perfect, as the others chuckled in response to the tension breaker.

----------

It had been quiet for almost a centar, and Starbuck was beginning to wonder if he had been delusional when he had thought that someone had been trying to get inside. Was it desperation? A hallucination? His imagination? Some other suitable "ation" that he couldn't think of just now? He sighed, dropping the prybar to his side, and wearily running a hand through his hair as he returned his full attention to his project. The transmitter was about as finished as he could get it, without a power source.

Luckily, the standard power outlet was easily accessible, even for a guy only capable of sidling across the floor on his astrum. Now all he had to do was to divert the energy source without electrocuting himself to death, or overloading the transmitter and blowing it to Hades hole. He sighed, reminding himself that he was a Viper pilot, and _not_ an electrical technician.

_Hmm . . .but at this point, you're probably delusional enough that it doesn't much matter._

He peered closely at the small circuit board, trying to glean whatever information he could. Besides the manufacture's name and model, it was just a bunch of meaningless code numbers. Frack! But, as he scrutinized the device, he decided that from their size and age, the components probably couldn't handle a high level of current. He looked over at the power tap. If he recalled correctly, those put out a nominal system volponage of about a hundred volpons, at around fifty cyclons per micron, at a current of . . . of _felgercarb_. He couldn't remember. _Probably should have paid attention more at the Academy, Bucko, instead of panting over what's-her-name in the next row! _But, he would doubtlessly need something to drop the current enough not to fry the transmitter. What . . .

He went through the containers again, but nothing he could use came to hand. He blew out a short breath, about to start conversing with God, or any other deity likely to listen, when he looked down at his swollen foot . . . and his other boot. Maybe . . .

Lifting his boot up, he looked over the buckles. Nothing. All wrong. But what about his jacket? He picked it up, and examined the clasps. Maybe. Maybe he could find a way . . . Using the prybar, he smashed one on the buckles, hitting it till it came apart. Colonel Tigh could add it to his bill. Once destroyed, he fingered through the bits, till he found what he wanted. The spring inside was a fairly thick wire, made of a nickel/chromium alloy. Or at least the old ones were, before the military went on its cost-cutting binge. He bent the wire and twisted it into a short length, then to be sure, smashed another buckle, extracting another wire. He wound them together, and then wound fabric from his jacket around them. That done, he scooted over to the power tap, and with care, pried the cover plate off. With a piece of one destroyed clasp, he unscrewed the tap, and pulled it out, giving him a length of wire to work with.

"Either this works," he told the walls, since they were the only ones paying him any attention, "or I blow it to Hades Hole, and probably electrocute myself." Suddenly, it was like being back in a cockpit, his ship barely holding together. _This is no time for trainees Athena. I'm in real trouble! _He connected the phase wire first, then making sure his bare foot was off the metal deck, connected the other.

_Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. . . ._

_----------  
_

"Internal scans were negative. As for what Starbuck was doing the last few days before he disappeared, as far as I can tell, it was strictly routine. The billet, the mess, the duty office, Alpha Bay, a couple social trips to the Life Station, the Rejuvenation Centre, the Fitness Centre, the simulators, the laser range . . ." Boomer's voice trailed off while he looked up from his data pad. He glanced at the others. "Nothing out of the ordinary. No apparent disputes or upsets. He didn't breathe a word about this bet he mentioned to Jolly. We checked his personal log. Also nothing. Dietra saw him on Delta Deck about a half-centar after Jolly placed him in the mess. She did said he was behaving a bit strangely, even for Starbuck."

"How so?" Sheba asked.

"Looking over his shoulder, and acting sort of uneasy," Boomer replied. "She noticed he wasn't wearing his laser. When she asked him what was going on, he muttered something evasive about paying his dues, and then headed for the nearest access hatch."

"Hatch? Not turbo-lift?" Apollo asked.

"That's right," Boomer nodded.

"Did she see anybody who might have been following him?" Cassie inserted.

"No, certainly no one that stuck out in her mind," Boomer replied.

"Paying his dues, huh? I don't really like the sound of that," Sheba inserted, glancing at her chrono. She frowned, letting out a breath. "I have to go pick up Boxey. His shuttle from the _Astrodon_ Freighter should arrive in about ten centons."

Apollo startled, starring guiltily at his own chrono. "I wonder if Athena would take him to the Rejuvenation Centre for us. The childcare program will be still on. I'm getting a bad feeling about all this. We_ really_ need to find Starbuck."

Boomer shook his head. "Athena would have just gone on duty, Apollo."

"It's okay. I'll take Boxey and drop him off there until my shift is done. Should I tell him about Starbuck?" Sheba asked, prepared to defer to her husband when it came their son. Motherhood was still relatively a new role for her.

"Not until we know something for certain, Sheba," Apollo replied. "There's no point in getting him upset for no real reason."

"It's starting to sound like there _is _a reason, we just haven't got to the bottom of it," Boomer replied. "A puzzle, but with a piece missing. So Starbuck loses some bet, goes to pay off his debt, for some reason leaves his laser in his locker, and then starts sneaking around like there's something wrong, but won't admit it to Dietra when she asks. The whole thing he keeps to himself, obviously not wanting anybody else to know about it. Did I leave anything out?"

"Plenty," Apollo replied solemnly. "But nothing that we're aware of."

Boomer sighed. "That's what I was afraid of."

-----------

Starbuck's back teeth were still buzzing after wiring his makeshift dropping resistor into place, and diverting the power, some of it, luckily at a low volpon flow, straight through _him_. Still, the transmitter actually seemed to be working, the unit emitting a low hum while appropriate lights flashed happily at him. Now, if the resistor didn't overheat, or something else fry, he might just have half a chance that the signal would be picked up. He gingerly adjusted the frequency coil, silently praying he didn't screw things up. _Oscillator . . .. oscillating. Mixer . . .mixing. _ It would be an anomaly, using a long-abandoned frequency that would put the likes of Apollo and Boomer into a communications frenzy. He could almost imagine them flittering excitedly around the comm system on the Bridge, coming up with possible explanations as to the source, while they tried to pinpoint an elusive signal that was probably bouncing its way around the venting system.

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back against the hatch. Apollo and Boomer _flittering_? Lords, he was really losing it now. That jolt of electricity seemed to have fried his brain, instead of the transmitter . . . still the transmitter was far more useful at this point, so it was just as well, he supposed. Now, if he could only read the compartment number through the wall . . . He lifted up the mic, pressing a switch.

_Click._

"Emergency. Emergency. This is Lieutenant Starbuck. If you can read this, I'm trapped in a _fortified_ storage compartment on Gamma Deck, somewhere between sections three and four. Repeat. This is Lieutenant Starbuck. If you can read this, I'm trapped in a fortified storage compartment on Gamma Deck, somewhere between sections three and four. Get me out of here!"

"Commander!" Athena called her father from her console on the Bridge. "I'm picking up a signal . . ." She frowned, adjusting the controls at her station, as she listened through her headset. "It's internal, but on an obscure frequency . . ."

Adama crossed to her station, watching as his daughter went through procedure to try and identify the signal, cross referencing with the data banks which now included both military and civilian frequencies.

"It's . . . it's an old citizen's frequency, Commander," Athena realized, as the data crossed her screen. "Not military at all."

"A _citizen's_ frequency?" Adama repeated. He had to stop and think a moment. Originally designed as a system of short-distance communications between individuals who transported goods and raw materials over land or sea, it didn't have sufficient range for space travel. Once commercial space transportation superseded its land-based counterpart, its use had all but disappeared, at least in a professional capacity, due to considerable interference from shipboard systems. "But those haven't been used for millennia."

"Other than by civilian enthusiasts," Tigh added. "The old frequencies still existed, and telecommunications prices being what they were, many hobbyists still used them, since they were free once you either invested in the equipment, or built your own." He smiled. "My uncle had an old CF communicator that we used to play around with when we were children. They had their own rather colourful language, and we could while away centars talking to people, often to find they only lived down the street."

"The signal is really distorted," Athena put a hand to her headset, frowning. "I can't make it out."

"Patch it through, Athena," Adama told her.

" _. . . uck . . .if . . . apped . . . for . . . . . partment . . .eck . . . sec. . . four. . . peat_ . . ." It was almost undecipherable, but that voice . . .

"Starbuck?" Adama murmured, seeing the recognition of the garbled voice also in his daughter's eyes as she looked up. He nodded at her, feeling a flutter of hope within his chest.

"Trying to clean it up," she nodded, her fingers flying across the keys as she applied herself to the task. She ran the signal through the Buffered Telemetry Demodulator, trying to squeeze out every bit she could.

"Where is it coming from?" Tigh asked, leaning over her station. They waited while she worked.

"Here on the _Galactica_. But . . . I can't isolate the point of origin," she replied, frowning. "It's almost like it's . . . it's rebounding." She sighed, shaking her head, and then muttering, "It can never be easy with you, can it, Starbuck?"

"Keep trying. At least we know he's alive," Adama replied, squeezing her shoulder. "Colonel, alert my son."

"Yes, sir."

"_Frack_!"

Both men turned in surprise as the expletive uncharacteristically left Athena's mouth. Her face was a mask of frustration and disappointment as she looked up at them. "I lost the signal. It's dead."

"Try to reacquire," said Tigh.

"Sir."

----------

"Bloody frackin' Hades hole . . ." Starbuck snarled, sucking on his burnt finger, tempted to pick up the blown transmitter and throw it against the wall, for all the good it would do him now. As he had feared, his amateur resistor had overheated, the full current from the power source frying the circuitry beyond repair, and also somehow knocking out the lights again. _Two days._ Two days of pinning his hopes and efforts on a transmitter that Sagan had probably used to check in with his mom when he was away playing.

_Sagan! Get away from those pyramids! And give the Seal of Kobol back to your father or I'll skin you alive!_

He wanted to scream. To shoot something. To throw a tantrum the likes of a two-yahren-old. He picked up the prybar, hurling it across the room, feeling little satisfaction when it crashed into the shelves, and clattered to the deck in the darkness. And now it was all the way on the other side of the room, so if someone _did_ come in, intent on retrieving those gas canisters, he didn't have much to defend himself with.

"Idiot," he murmured, detecting a common theme, possibly due to the amount of times he had referred to himself that way since getting locked in this storage room. Possibly the worst part was that now he had nothing to occupy his mind, but his own thoughts. And those were taking a merry romp in several unusual directions, and he had pretty much resolved himself to just going along for the ride. It was discouraging, to say the least. And this, all because of a bet. He couldn't believe he'd allowed himself to be suckered like that. He sighed, raking his hand through his hair once again. "Idiot!"

----------

Down in the guts of the Battlestar, in one of the alcoves off the main engine room that housed numerous engineering subsystems monitors, Technician First Class Proca, the dead stub of a fumarello still in his mouth, looked up at his board.

"Huh. There it is again."

He punched up the data, and gave it a closer look. A power drain, on Gamma Deck. Weird. His early watch counterpart had reported the same, and logged it, but it had cleared up almost as soon as Proca had come on watch, and he'd been snowed with other things to do. Now, it was happening again. He started a traceback, trying to localize the problem. Yeah. The power trunk between sections three and four. Something was pulling way too much juice in that part of the grid. He pulled up the deck plan. Hmm . . . Just a bunch of storage compartments. Wire and cable. Extra tool chests. Some non-perishable food and medical items. Nothing out of the ordinary. According to the log, no one had even been in any of those rooms since before they had left the Zykonian Space Station.

Well, it was a minor problem, albeit irritating. He logged it, and forwarded it to the appropriate maintenance personnel.

----------

"_Repeat . . .tenant . . . buck . . .read . . . apped . . . fied . .. sto . . . partment . . deck . . . sec. . .three . . . four. . ._"

"Again?" Apollo asked his sister, his brow furrowed as he looked at Boomer, who shook his head. Adama stood to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, and one hand supporting his chin while he concentrated on the garbled mess, as once again they listened to the recorded message that everyone was sure Starbuck had sent.

"_Compartment_? _Deck?_" Apollo looked at the others.

"That's what it sounded like." Boomer nodded. "He's trying to tell us where he is."

"You're sure you can't get a position, Athena?" Boomer checked with his wife.

"No, I couldn't trace the original signal, and now that it's gone, I have nothing to lock onto . . . not that I could the first time around, anyway. It was muffled. I was going to try and triangulate with the _Century_, and the incoming patrol, but the signal died." She winced at her choice of words.

"Makes me wonder why it suddenly stopped," Tigh frowned. "That doesn't bode . . ." with a quick glance at Cassie, he bit off his words.

"That's alright, Colonel," the med tech said. "I've been thinking the same thing." She paused. "I can't believe this is happening right here on the _Galactica_." She rubbed her arms, a fine shudder running through her. The ship was home now, and a part of her didn't want to think of it as a potentially dangerous place. "How does a well-known warrior get lost on a ship full of warriors?"

"I'm betting Starbuck just told us _exactly_ where he is, only we didn't get it. We could take a copy of this recording to Dr. Wilker's lab, and see if we can get it any clearer," Boomer suggested.

"Like you did with that gamma transmission before Starbuck and Apollo infiltrated the Cylon Base Ship," Cassie clarified.

"Exactly," Apollo nodded.

"I'll keep monitoring the frequency," Athena reassured them, reaching out to grasp Cassie's hand before she left. "Starbuck won't give up. Don't worry, we'll find him."

----------

Starbuck was all out of ideas, and about ready to give up. After all, he'd given it his best shot, and short of climbing up through the air vent, and squirming his way through a maze of ducts without a schematic to guide him, his hands were basically tied. _Unless _he could figure out some way to make himself smell like a mushie, then it was even odds on whether or not Muffit would find him at some point.

Actually, that plan wasn't sounding half bad . . . except for the fact that he couldn't _get_ up to the air vent, especially with a broken ankle. Hmm . . . maybe he could build a makeshift catapult and fire himself up there . . . or use the pressurized gas canisters and ride them like an old-fashioned rocket . . . anything to escape. Sagan's sake, he was fed up with this place. When he made it out of here he was going to register an official complaint with the Service, citing the tedium and general bleakness of their storage compartments. It might be fine for an old transmitter, but Colonial Warriors certainly deserved better . . .

_That's it, Bucko, it's official. You're delirious._

His head dropped listlessly back against the hatch, and he rubbed a hand over his face. The entire room was throbbing, pulsating against him in the darkness, infiltrating his peace and solitude with an insistent presence that wouldn't be ignored. It was bordering on obnoxious, but then admittedly he was a bit low on patience by this point, and had completely lost his sense of humour. His head lolled forward onto his chest, and he could feel an overwhelming weariness dragging him down. In the darkness was a promise of security, however empty.

It was the best offer he'd had for days.

----------

Sheba smiled as Boxey burst through the door of the Rejuvenation Centre, immediately migrating towards his friends, and immersing himself in the action surrounding the Compartment Billyarks table. The young boy had become the self-professed champion of the game, reminding Sheba that perhaps he was spending just a little _too_ much time there.

She headed over to the supervisor, Larissa, to register her son. _Her _son. It still gave her a warm feeling that was difficult to describe every time the small boy called her "mom". It had taken a long time for Boxey to accept Sheba in his life; it had taken even longer for him to embrace her.

"I'll only be a couple centars," Sheba clarified, as the woman looked up to check out a sudden commotion, which settled down just as quickly when the youngsters noticed her watching.

"That should give Boxey enough time to secure the top score for the day," Larissa replied with a smile. "If CB scores were Viper kills, he'd be an ace a dozen times over."

"No doubt," Sheba nodded, turning to watch the boys for a moment. Oh, to be so young and carefree again, your biggest desire to outdo your friends at a game. She wandered over to say hello to the boys, not recognizing a couple of the youngsters.

"He got away. We never did find him," one of the boys was saying. "I think he cheated."

"I think he _owes_ us," Colm added.

"Yeah," added Dillon. "It isn't fair."

"He _is_ one of our best warriors," Boxey returned almost proudly. "He's the deputy squadron leader of Red, _and_ my Dad's old wingman. They snuck aboard and defeated a whole Base Ship full of Cylons, and then . . ."

Sheba gasped, touching her son on the shoulder. "Boxey, are you talking about Starbuck?"

The young boy turned, grimacing, as though caught saying something he shouldn't. "Uh . . ." he bit his lip, as he looked guiltily between his friends and her.

"Boxey?" Sheba kneeled down beside him. "Starbuck went missing the day you went over to the _Astrodon_ Freighter. No one has seen him since. If you _know_ something, you need to tell me."

"But . . ." The boy looked torn, looking to his friends, then back to his stepmother. "But I _promised_ . . ."

"Boxey!"


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Starbuck's eyes flew open as a low vibration ran through his frame, waking him from a light sleep. His eyes darted around the storeroom as he tried to figure out what was going on. It felt like a seismic tremor, the reverberation consuming his entire body as it had on the crumbling planet where they'd found the Earthman, Byrne, but Battlestars weren't generally subjected to those forces, being way out in space . . .

What then? What else could it be? Were they under attack? Ziklagi? The pirates that cruised this region? Some other threat? Maybe the Cylons had had enough of this detente? _Baltar _. . .

He leaned forward, tensing, as the possibilities ran through his mind. An innate compulsion to get out there and defend the Fleet made him want to tear down the walls with his bare hands and run for his Viper . . . both eventualities equally unlikely. He paused, abruptly realizing that he couldn't feel the vibration any more.

Starbuck twisted, lightly putting his hand against the hatch he'd been leaning against. Once again, he could feel the tremor. It was strong enough that it radiated through the door. It had to be some kind of electric motor. Not the door's, though. A power tool? Yes! Someone was . . . drilling out the lock! It had to be! In a matter of centons, he'd be free!

The grin of relief froze on his face.

Was it friend or foe? His heart started pounding as he realized it was even odds either way. He glanced at his chrono, trying to remember when he had suspected someone was trying the door, attempting to get in. Sometime the night before? No . . . it was that morning. Had whoever was responsible for the canisters come back to find out why they couldn't get in?

He hoisted himself to his good foot, gritting his teeth against the pain as his other ankle exploded in agony. He had to get the prybar that he'd thrown across the room. It was his only weapon. Grunting, he half hopped, half dragged himself over to where it rested beneath the shelves, feeling as though he was back in the Academy, trekking across the Great Plains of Scorpius. His chest heaving, he leaned down, fighting against the encroaching waves of dizziness and nausea, as he wrapped his fist around the tool. He had it! Bolting upright again, he forced himself to keep moving. He had to retrace his steps as quickly as possible. He had to douse the lights and be ready when they came through the hatch! He had to gain an advantage!

He had to be out of his mind . . .

His head swam, and he swayed to one side, crashing into some storage containers, and dropping the prybar. His ankle went supernova when the tool hit it, and he choked on the pain, unable to bear it as he landed in a heap. At that moment—as his luck would have it—the hatch burst open. In a twist of fate, it didn't hit him in the head.

"Starbuck!" Apollo cried, moving quickly to his friend's side, Boomer and Cassiopeia on his heels. Together they pushed debris out of the way, as they knelt beside him. Cassie immediately began running her biomonitor over him.

"Are you okay?" Boomer asked.

"Do I _look_ it? I'd kill for a drink of just about anything," Starbuck rasped, just about jumping out of his skin when Cassie lightly touched his ankle. She cast an apologetic look his way before returning to her assessment. Starbuck drew in a steadying breath, taking a long moment to compose himself, then another to glance at his chrono, before shifting his attention to the strike captain. "You're late."

Apollo's mask of concern changed in a micron, and he sniffed in amusement, shaking his head. He pulled a military-issued canteen off his shoulder, popping the top. "Am I? How long have you been waiting to say _that_?"

"Since my second yahren at the Academy, and more recently on Arcta," Starbuck admitted with a wan smile. The amount of times that Apollo had told him "Don't be late" were actually too numerous to mention. He sure as Hades wasn't going to miss the opportunity to mention now that, finally, the tables had turned. That done, he greedily reached for the nectar. His hand trembled as he gulped the water down, not caring when it spilt down his face and onto his bare torso. It was glorious.

"Easy, buddy," Apollo grabbed his hand, steadying it, then reassuring him, "we have more where that came from."

"Well then, keep it coming," Starbuck returned around another gulp of water. "What took you?"

"We narrowed down your last reported location to Gamma Deck, but obviously the biosensors in this room aren't working, because they didn't pick you up. We ended up having to start a compartment by compartment search."

"No small task on a Battlestar," Boomer added.

Starbuck nodded, conceding the point.

"Finally, Athena identified your exact location after doing a search looking for energy fluctuations logged in on Gamma Deck by Engineering." Apollo glanced over at the fried archaic transmitter, shaking his head in wonder that it had worked at all. "She figured that the transmitter you used had likely tapped into the available power source, and that it would show on the power grid monitor as a minor volponage drop."

"Athena?" Starbuck asked in surprise.

"And she was right," Boomer smiled proudly, glancing at Cassiopeia as she entered some data into her medical analyser. "How's it look?"

"He's dehydrated, has a low-grade fever, and a fractured lateral malleolus, but we can wait to get him to the Life Station before we treat him," Cassiopeia announced with a relieved nod.

"Then he should be fine?" Starbuck grunted, as she started to immobilize his ankle. Maybe it sounded flip, but he needed her to be more than a _med tech_ for just a brief restorative moment.

She faltered, realizing she was talking over him, and looking damned guilty about it too. Actually, she seemed to be _drowning_ in guilt as her eyes locked on his, and she frowned. "Damn you, Starbuck. You had me scared to death." She let out a ragged breath. "I thought . . ."

"_You_ were scared? I was beginning to think you'd all assumed I'd mutinied, and headed for the first tropical paradise within Viper range. It's_ been _two days." Starbuck held her gaze, seeing the worry she tried to hide behind the usual front of efficiency. As much as she loved her job, he knew she found it difficult when she had to care for the people she was closest to. A carefully cultivated professional distance was the med tech's best defence, she'd once told him. Being a warrior, he understood that. However, after two days in desperate isolation, he just couldn't grant her that luxury right now. If that was selfish, so be it.

"_Where's_ this tropical paradise . . . and why didn't you mention it _before_ our furlon?" Boomer inserted, assuaging the tension.

"Because I know how much you hate those fruity drinks with the little parasols in them," Starbuck rejoined, hissing when Cassie cinched up the splint. Pain shot up his leg into sensitive regions that had no business hurting. "Ow!"

She reached for her hypospray.

"Wait a centon!" Starbuck yelped, as it suddenly hit him. He'd been so caught up in the moment, and so relieved that he'd finally been found, that he'd totally forgotten about the canisters. Cassie almost dropped the hypo, as she startled at the vehemence in his tone. "Sorry, Cass. But before you knock me out, I need to get Apollo and Boomer to take a look at something."

Boomer looked at him dubiously. Apollo raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

"Fruity drinks?" asked Boomer, arms crossed.

"Only if you're pouring," he returned in a heartbeat, before adding, "Over there. In the storage containers." Starbuck pointed to the corner where he'd pushed the nondescript storage bins, hiding them among the other dozen or so that they looked like, just in case the owners had come to claim them during his stay. It would have given him just a little extra time . . . "I found them when I was trying to rebuild the transmitter, and I didn't like the look of them."

"Which containers?" Boomer asked, rising to his feet to take a look. He looked as though he was waiting for a spring-loaded serpent to leap out at him, as a practical joke.

Starbuck frowned, suddenly unsure. He sat up, letting out a breath as the pain returned twofold. "The cleanest ones," he admitted between gritted teeth. The longer he waited, the more enticing the hypospray became. He waited restlessly, while Boomer shifted a bin or two, and then pulled a lid away.

The Red leader reached inside, and lifted one of the canisters out, looking it over carefully. They all paused in anticipation at Boomer's sudden intake of breath.

"Holy frack . . ." the Red Squadron leader muttered in horror. "Apollo, you'd better take a look at this."

----------

Far from being one of his favourite places, Starbuck usually associated the Life Station with pain, suffering and a preamble to light duty along with an extended hiatus from triad, fumarellos and ambrosa. However, today it was right up there with the _Rising Star_ and his Viper cockpit, as he acknowledged that the throbbing of his foot had eased off considerably, finally transforming into a tingly sensation that he could comfortably attribute to his current Regeneration Treatment. On admission, he'd been scanned, probed, poked and prodded to the limits of any Colonial Warrior, and so it had been a blessed relief when he'd finally been left alone to doze off, as he passively underwent bone mending, regeneration and rehydration therapies. It was a welcome reprieve, however long it lasted. Still he had an underlying uneasiness that he couldn't put his finger on. Just a feeling, and as such it would eventually go away, if he ignored it long enough. He let his thoughts drift away, as the sounds of the Life Station lured him back towards sleep.

The jostling of his biobed startled him fully awake, and he opened his eyes to see Med Tech Tone standing beside him, recording his life signs on a medical data pad.

"Oh," he murmured. "Hey, Tone."

"How's the pain, Lieutenant?"

"_What_ pain?" Starbuck replied, reaching for the tumbler of ice-cold water that they'd been refilling constantly since he'd arrived. He sucked it back, savouring the refreshing goodness as it slaked his thirst.

"That's what we like to hear," Tone smiled, entering the data into his records. "In addition to the fracture, you had an early case of cellulitis, but it's under control with the antibiotic therapy. We're going to move you into an isolation room now." He began unplugging the bed from the machinery. "The commander's on his way to debrief you, and apparently he doesn't want to do so in the middle of the Life Station."

Starbuck nodded, well aware that Command still needed their questions answered, especially since he had dropped like a stone when Cassiopeia had administered him some narcotic, just after Boomer had found the canisters. The accumulation of sleep deprivation, constant pain, and the start of an infection had all contributed to his apparent intolerance for a drug that normally wouldn't faze him. Then again, he vaguely did remember it had taken a couple doses to get his pain under control as they attempted to move him . . . it had probably been that second one that had knocked him into oblivion, where he had stayed gratefully for at least a centar.

Tone adjusted some controls on the biobed and began slowly pushing it towards a private room, usually afforded to those of importance, or meant to separate infectious patients from the general population, at least according to what Cassie had told him in the past. "As long as I don't have to pay extra for the private med tech, IFB link, and telecom, Tone. I'm a little short this secton."

"All part of the fabulous benefit package of the Colonial Service, Lieutenant," Tone replied, amusement in his voice. "Just don't touch anything, so we won't have to clean it before we launch you back to the general ward when Command is through with you."

"Affirmative," Starbuck replied with a chuckle, as the bed cleared the door and Tone parked it in position, and began reattaching the equipment. "Where's Cassiopeia? Is she still on duty?"

"She's off now, so you might as well put your Life Station gown back on," the med tech quipped, referring to the scrap of clothing that they had insisted on inflicting upon him. Starbuck had cast it aside in short order, preferring to feel the cool recirculated air against his skin, rather than struggle with the thin and meagre garment that opened ever-so enticingly at the back, leaving it all hanging out to dry, and exposing everything aft of his anti-burn baffles . . . "She said she'd be back for a social call once she had a chance to turbo wash off the microbes," Tone continued, turning as Apollo, Adama, Boomer, Sheba and Boxey appeared at the door. "Come on in. He's awake and ready for you."

"Starbuck, how are you feeling?" Commander Adama asked from the door, running a critical eye over the warrior. He paused, letting the others fill up the room ahead of him.

"Much better, sir. I should be out of here tomorrow," Starbuck replied, as Boxey shuffled over to the biobed. While he wasn't surprised to see Adama and Boomer, or really even Sheba for that matter, Boxey's presence was a little . . . unorthodox. "I know Boxey's a junior warrior, but shouldn't he wait until _after_ graduating from Primary Instruction before he starts attending debriefings?"

The child tittered, apparently more amused than the adults, as was often the case. "Hi, Starbuck."

"Hi, kid." He raised his water tumbler to the child, taking another drink. "I guess I have you to thank for letting them know where I was." He reached out a hand, mussing the child's hair. "Not that I want to appear ungrateful . . . but what took you so long?"

Boxey frowned slightly, looking at the warrior almost shyly. "Sorry, Starbuck. I didn't know you were missing until I came back from the _Astrodon_ Freighter today. I was visiting Zaden. Just as soon as I found out, I told them."

"With great reluctance," Sheba added quietly.

"That's okay, Boxey. No harm done," Starbuck told the boy.

It was still a little difficult to swallow that no one had missed him in two whole days. However, life had taught him long ago that no matter how much he tried to change it, in actuality, whether an orphan, a cadet or a Colonial Warrior, he was really just one more individual among countless others. Besides, if he hadn't spent two days locked in the storage room, he'd never have discovered the mysterious canisters, which he was anxious to find out more about. But that wouldn't happen with Boxey present.

"Actually, the reason Boxey's here, Starbuck, is that we're a little confused about how all of this came about, and how you came to be locked in that particular storage room. There were a few rumours flying around that we'd like cleared up," Commander Adama inserted. "Boxey wasn't exactly _enlightening_ about the circumstances. We were hoping you could elucidate on what he told us."

"Oh?" Starbuck asked, his gaze swinging from the boy to his dubious looking parents, and back to Commander Adama.

"I _promised_," whispered the boy to Sheba.

"Apparently, he gave you his word as a junior warrior that he wouldn't tell anybody about what you were up to, Starbuck. Is that right?" Sheba asked, as she considered the lieutenant askance, her arms crossed.

"He did _what_?" Starbuck asked, incredulously. Granted, he didn't exactly want word spreading around, but . . . there had to be some kind of misunderstanding. "Remind me when this was?"

"In the Rejuvenation Centre," Sheba replied.

"Hmm," he replied dubiously, thinking back to the exchange and trying to remember how it had happened, exactly. His brain wasn't coming up with any scenarios where he had extracted words of honour from a seven-yahren-old child. "You're sure you have the right guy? You haven't hustled any _other_ warriors this secton, huh, Boxey?"

The boy's chin dropped guiltily, and he shook his head slightly while examining something on the floor and shuffling from foot to foot.

"_Hustled_?" Apollo echoed, glancing at his son. It was clearly news to him.

"Now _this_ I have to hear," Boomer piped up, as he took a seat in the corner, and settled in as though he was about to start watching a sporting event.

Adama cleared his throat. "Boxey, perhaps now would be a good time to start. Tell us what happened."

The youngster nodded reluctantly, glancing at Starbuck once again before beginning. "I challenged Starbuck to a Compartment Billyarks game in the Rejuvenation Centre a few days ago, right after I got out of instructional period." He again glanced at the lieutenant who nodded at him.

"Go on," Adama encouraged the boy.

"We . . .uh . . . made a bet," Boxey ducked his head, avoiding his father's gaze.

"_You_ made a bet with _my son_?" Apollo asked his friend incredulously.

"_The_ bet?" Adama inserted, eyebrows raised. Starbuck's nefarious bet that had seemingly put him in danger was with . . . _Boxey_?

"Sorry, sir?" Starbuck shook his head in confusion. _The_ bet?

"Jolly mentioned a . . . a _situation_ you had found yourself in because of a bet," Sheba inserted.

"Uh . . . yeah," Starbuck winced, remembering running into the lieutenant in the mess. "_That_ bet."

"With _Boxey_?" Apollo asked once again, as though he couldn't quite believe it.

"It was just a _little_ bet." Starbuck pinched his thumb and index finger together to illustrate to the others just how inconsequential it was. Apollo raised his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed.

"Well, I guess it was only a matter of time," Boomer quipped good-naturedly as he grinned at Starbuck, apparently enjoying his discomfiture. "What was the bet, Boxey?"

Boxey smiled. "If _he_ won, I had to polish his dress boots every secton for the next sectar."

"And if _you_ won?" Adama asked him.

"Starbuck had to play Pursuit with us," Boxey admitted, with a sly smile.

"By all the Lords . . ."Boomer chuckled, as the pieces clicked into place.

Pursuit was a game that had been popular with children for generations. Whoever was "It" had to evade his pursuers in any way possible. If they physically caught him, then he lost, and a new "It" was appointed for the next round. Starbuck had been conned into playing a children's game, and was apparently doing so, when he had been seen sneaking about the ship, muttering sarcastically about paying his dues.

"Boxey didn't just beat me at Compartment Billyarks though, he _annihilated_ me," Starbuck clarified. He didn't bother to mention the boy had softened him up for the kill with a few mediocre games of Starhounds before he suggested making it more "interesting". At the time, it had been so amusingly familiar that he had fallen for the ruse hook, line and sinker. Played for a chump by a kid with all the accuracy of a Cylon pinwheel attack, and far less effort.

"Boxey holds the record for the highest score in the entire Fleet," Sheba added, with a disapproving glance at the boy. "You didn't have a chance, Starbuck."

"Oh, believe me, I figured that out about a centon into our game," Starbuck replied wryly, glancing at the squirming child, and feeling an immediate kinship for him. "Actually, playing Pursuit took me back to my own childhood. I was champion for my wing at the orphanage. Don't tell the guys in Red, but it was the most fun I've had in ages . . . right up until I broke my ankle when I was trying to get away, that is. Then the dang lock broke on the storeroom hatch . . . "

"Don't tell the guys in Red . . ." Apollo mused, glancing at his son sceptically. "Is that the kind of promise Starbuck asked you to make, Boxey?"

"Something like that," Boxey admitted abashed, before declaring indignantly, "But I _still_ promised."

"Yes, I'm sure your desire to keep your promise had nothing whatsoever to do with not wanting to tell us you were hustling Starbuck," Sheba inserted evenly and accurately. The boy dropped her gaze.

"So when Dietra saw you skulking around on Delta Deck, Bucko, you were running away from a gang of kids," Boomer chuckled. "No wonder you left your laser behind."

"Well, Boxey _did_ mention that the rules said I couldn't shoot them to escape," Starbuck returned, deadpan. "Figured I'd better lock it up, just in case I was tempted."

"Well, that certainly clears up a few things, most notably this mysterious bet," Adama said, shaking his head before turning his attention to his errant grandson. One of the nicest things about being a grandparent was that such behaviour was generally the responsibility of the parents. "Thank you for your honesty, Boxey." He nodded at Sheba.

She placed a hand on her stepson's shoulder. "Is there anything you wanted to say to Starbuck, Boxey?"

"Sorry I tricked you, Starbuck," Boxey mumbled to the supine warrior's chest, before looking up and meeting his eyes. "I just thought it would be fun if you'd play with us, and I know you have time on your hands with Cassiopeia becoming a doctor . . ."

_Time on his hands_? Starbuck's gaze switched to Sheba and Apollo who were exchanging that patented parental "Oops!" expression. "Just don't let it happen again, kid," he replied lightly, before narrowing his eyes and threatening, "Or I might be forced to even the playing field." He winked at the child.

The boy smiled, his eyes twinkling.

"Don't even think about it. _Either_ of you," Sheba told them sternly, taking a moment to look at her husband, silently communicating some unknown message, before marching the child out of the room.

"Starbuck," Apollo paused, waiting for the door to close behind them. "He's _seven- yahrens-old_!" he said in exasperation. "Why would you even _consider_ making a bet with him?"

"I didn't really give it a lot of thought," Starbuck admitted. "Sagan's sake, Apollo, I was already playing Wild Capstone to get out of doing chores at the orphanage when I was younger than Boxey."

Apollo blinked, glancing at his father and then Boomer, as if seeking some moral support. Boomer shrugged, as if he wasn't the least bit surprised, or bothered. The commander was wearing a familiar look that Apollo had almost forgotten, as though he had tuned them completely out, and was patiently waiting for the disagreement to end. How often had Apollo seen it while he was arguing with Zac or Athena as a teenager? He let out a long breath, returning his attention to Starbuck. "Please tell me that you're joking. There are _so _many things inherently wrong with that explanation."

Starbuck shrugged nonchalantly. "Life skills. Every kid needs to learn them sooner or later. He might as well learn from the best."

"_Starbuck_ . . ." Apollo muttered in disbelief. "Listen buddy, I really don't want my son to be educated in ways to shirk his responsibilities, let alone ways to hustle his friends. Not by you, or anybody else."

"Oh, he already has the 'hustling' down pat without my help. Believe me, he doesn't need much in the way of an education there." He hesitated when Apollo stared lasers at him. "What did I say?"

"Are you being _deliberately_ obtuse?" Apollo asked in obvious frustration.

"Hey, it's _me_," Starbuck replied, not really knowing how to defend himself, or why he felt the need to. "I'd never do anything to hurt Boxey. You know that, don't you?"

Apollo blew out a deep breath. "It's times like this, when I realize how _different _our upbringings were. And yes, of course I know you'd never do anything to intentionally hurt Boxey."

"_Intentionally_," Starbuck echoed hollowly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Apollo frowned, shaking his head and fanning his hands innocuously. "Nothing. Ironically, in this instance, the only one who got hurt was you." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "You're a good man, Starbuck, and one of the best friends I've ever had."

"_But_," Starbuck replied innately, as an inexplicable sense of trepidation swept over him.

"But . . . I think you can safely leave Boxey's education on necessary life skills to Sheba and I," Apollo replied, a smile playing on his lips. "That's _our_ role."

Starbuck breathed out a short breath of amusement at his friend's diplomacy. "Fair enough, buddy."

"No more bets," Apollo added, grasping his friend's forearm.

"No more bets. At least with Boxey," Starbuck grinned, returning the warrior's grip. "Now what did you find out about the canisters?" He could see the subtle shift in body language with all three men. On edge. Not good news. "What's in them?"

"Dr. Wilker has already analysed the contents, merely to identify it. It's a highly toxic binary chemical called _piiglin__," Apollo told him. "Do you remember hearing about it in training?"_

_ "Piiglin?" Starbuck racked his brain._ "A nerve agent, right? A lethal gas?"

"Close, though technically it's classified as a _pulmonary_ agent. Nerve agents generally affect neurotransmitters, eventually resulting in prolonged contraction of all muscles in the body. When it affects the diaphragm, victims die without intervention. Also, people are usually exposed on contact. The basic difference with pulmonary agents is that they mainly affect the respiratory system in varying degrees, and are usually inhaled."

Starbuck raised his eyebrows at the data coming from his friend. "I'm impressed, buddy."

"Don't be. It's straight from a training module," Apollo admitted. "I thought I'd brush up while we were awaiting the results."

"Then refresh my mind on the _binary_ part," Boomer asked him, rising from his chair to join them.

Apollo nodded. "Piiglin isn't contained in its active state. Instead, it's divided into two chemical precursors, physically separated within the canister. The precursors are designed to be significantly less toxic than the piiglin, and this allows the weapon to be transported and stored more safely. It also increases the longevity and toxicity of the final agent."

"Then how do the precursors mix?" Starbuck asked.

"An internal charge that bursts the separated capsules, potentiating the reaction of the chemicals. There's enough piiglin there to incapacitate this entire ship."

Starbuck let out a low whistle.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't it the _Cylons_ who developed piiglin for chemical warfare?" Boomer asked.

"Hundreds of yahrens ago, yes," Adama replied. "The Cylons experimented with it in various intensities, which resulted in a range of reactions from coughing, choking and shortness of breath to pulmonary edema, circulatory system failure and death. They even used it against the Colonies in some of their raids."

"But what's it doing aboard the _Galactica_?" Boomer asked. "And how did it get here?"

"A goodwill present from Baltar?" Starbuck ventured.

Adama raised his eyebrows, setting his glower upon the young man.

"No disrespect intended to you, Commander," Starbuck shrugged. "But it's _Cylon_, and they're the only tin cans who have come calling lately."

"A chemical warfare agent stockpiled hundreds of yahrens ago could have ended up just about anywhere, Starbuck," the commander replied reasonably. "There were intelligence reports yahrens ago that the Cylons sold many of those old agents in the expectation that other races would annihilate each other, saving them the inevitable trouble."

"Making a profit selling toxic chemicals, _and_ having somebody else do your dirty work for you," Boomer shook his head in disgust. "Sounds like something they'd do."

"Besides, from the state of that storage room, I suspect that the _piiglin_ has been with us longer than Baltar's Base Ship," Apollo inserted. "Dr. Wilker will be able to tell us more when the final analyses are done."

Boomer nodded. "Interestingly, like Starbuck pointed out, the canisters and cases seemed awfully clean in comparison to the rest of the junk in there. That, and the room had its biosensors and interior keypads disabled, intentionally. Whoever was storing the piiglin didn't want anybody knowing they were accessing the room unduly."

"Speaking of which, I was sure someone was trying to get into the room early this morning," Starbuck inserted, as the others looked at him in surprise. "Of course, I was hoping it was you guys, but even banging on the door with a prybar didn't get a reaction. Unless, of course, someone took a _long_ detour before reporting that I was locked in a storage room."

"Is _that_ why you wiped out in the storage room when we were breaking in?" Boomer asked. "You thought that person was coming back?"

"And you thought I was just excited to see you," Starbuck returned. He ran a hand distractedly over his bristly face. "I was trying to get my hands on a weapon, just in case whoever it was didn't like the idea of my being there."

"We've reactivated the room's internal sensors, in the event whoever it is comes back, but if they tried earlier, and discovered something was wrong, we probably won't see them revisiting the storeroom," Commander Adama theorized.

"Meanwhile, Colonial Security has gone over the room minutely, looking for any clues as to who has been there recently," Boomer added. "Scans show nothing. No fingerprints, no DNA traces, nothing. Not a single clue to help us trace whoever is behind this."

Starbuck nodded. "Listen, not long after I got locked in, the lights died. I also discovered the fire prevention equipment was dysfunctional, and then I noticed that the whole room was covered in grime dating back to the _Galactica_'s first launch. We might want to check in with Colonial Maintenance to see who's slipping up on the job. Maybe it's on purpose," Starbuck suggested. "Maybe someone is keeping the usual guys out of there."

"Good idea," Boomer nodded. "It could give us a lead."

"Yeah, well I had a while to think about it. I was also thinking that the only people left standing if they actually used the piiglin would need to be wearing some heavy-duty protective apparatus, in this case, breathing gear. Not exactly available in _everybody's_ locker, and probably traceable if you weren't working in Fire Prevention," Starbuck ventured, letting out a long breath before looking to Adama. "Commander, if we found enough piiglin on the _Galactica_ to incapacitate everyone aboard . . . was this a military coup in the making that we averted? Who has the power and the clout to do that?"

"Also, is there more of this piiglin gas elsewhere in the Fleet? Or still aboard the _Galactica_, for that matter?" Apollo added. "How big _is_ this thing? How many people are involved?"

"Sagan's sake, I didn't believe that our _internal_ problems could get bigger than the Cylon threat . . ." Boomer muttered in disbelief, leaning against the biobed. "Are these people out of their minds? What do they _want_?"

"And will we find them before they have a chance to put their plan into action, and _tell _us their demands?" Adama murmured soberly to the three young men. "Lords of Kobol, let it be so."

"Sir, you _are_ going to brief everybody, aren't you?" Starbuck asked, his stomach tightening in knots as he awaited his CO's reply. It wasn't that long ago that Command had decided to keep the knowledge of a murderous Ziklagi spy classified, due to the panic it might have caused in the Fleet. Innocent people had been hurt or killed, careers ruined, lives scarred . . . Sagan's sake, a promising young _cadet_ had resigned from the Service and since then had become a _bureautician_! He couldn't just sit there subordinately and let that kind of mayhem happen again. "I mean . . . if this _was _part of a potential coup, we'll need every Colonial Warrior, Blackshirt and Special Forces Op in the Fleet to have their eyes open for these guys. Especially if there's a chance that there's more piiglin out there." He ignored the elbow that Boomer jabbed surreptitiously into his ribs. "If they put this pulmonary agent in the life support system of any ship in the Fleet, they could take everybody aboard hostage, Commander."

"I'm well aware of that, Starbuck." Adama turned his way, his true emotions veiled, as they so often had to be, beneath a composed exterior. "But if word leaked out, the widespread panic would be catastrophic."

"And a hostage taking _wouldn't_ be?" Starbuck retorted, his voice rising with his frustration.

"Starbuck . . ." Apollo cautioned him.

Adama set his tylinium gaze on the warrior, all further words unnecessary.

"Sorry, Commander . . ." Starbuck mumbled, as the glower of disapproval from a man that he'd respected more than Lord Sagan himself pummelled him. "But . . ."

Adama sighed, stepping forward and briefly placing a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "It won't be another Over-Lieutenant Korax, Starbuck. I promise you that," he nodded in reassurance, as he took a step back.

It was so eerily close to what was going through Starbuck's mind, it almost floored him. _How could he know . . .?_

"While I have every intention of keeping this classified, there _will_ be a restricted briefing with our deputy and squadron leaders, as well as the Elite Special Forces," the commander continued. "You're right; we need enough sets of eyes out there to help us find the people responsible."

Starbuck glanced at Boomer, knowing from the expression on his squadron leader's face that they were thinking the same thing. Hey, he'd already overstepped his bounds once. By now it was expected. "And the Council?"

After all, the odds on this being solely a military issue, rather than a civilian one, were low enough that even Starbuck wouldn't put cubits on it. But sometimes Council members were more vicious than Cylons, and in the bureaucratic arena, something like this could easily be used against Adama, as a declaration of no confidence in the president. One tiny whiff of a problem, and the vultures would begin to circle.

"Not yet. We need more than theories and hearsay before I take any of this to the Council." Adama replied, turning to engage all three men. "Captain. Lieutenants. You're not to breathe a word of this to anyone until the briefing. Strictly classified. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," the three replied, Apollo a beat behind the other two.

"Dr. Salik will be brought aboard, since we're obviously going to need to develop a new anti-toxin."

"Cassiopeia was there when we discovered the canisters, sir," Apollo added. "She might be able to help with that, since she already has an idea of what the canisters held."

"I'll speak to Dr. Salik about it now, Captain," Adama replied. He turned to go, pausing at the doorway for a drawn out moment before turning back, as if he'd forgotten something. "Starbuck?"

"Yes, Commander?" An inexplicable apprehension descended on him.

"You're going to need to be on light duty for a secton." It was uncharacteristically tentative for the commander.

The lieutenant grimaced, internally groaning. Sagan, he'd been off duty so much in the last few sectars, there were jokes going around the billet about how Starbuck had somehow managed to scam an early retirement, and was just showing up in person once in a while to keep up appearances. "Yes, sir."

"Tell me . . . what are the odds that if we assigned you to playing Pursuit with the children of the Fleet, a ship at a time, that you'd continue to lock yourself in storerooms until you found the _rest_ of the piiglin?" Only the slight quirk of his lips gave him away. Apollo and Boomer chuckled aloud. "This could only happen to _you_, son," he smiled fondly at the young man that he'd known since Apollo's days at the Academy.

"Always good to know that someone up there has a sense of humour, Commander," Starbuck returned wryly, thumb pointed towards the ceiling, feeling the apprehension flitter away, and some of his previous unease dissipate.

"Quite. And, I'm planning a family meal tomorrow evening. It occurs to me that it's been ages since you've attended."

"I suppose you're right . . ." Starbuck murmured noncommittally. It _had_ been customary at one time for him to attend. They'd all been through a lot since then.

"Please do bring Cassiopeia. And Chameleon as well, if he can make it."

"Thank you, Commander," Starbuck replied, clearing a throat that was strangely tight, as Apollo chose that moment to arbitrarily squeeze his shoulder. Just a moment before it had been strictly professional. Now, he was amongst family.

Again.

"Good to have you back, Starbuck," Adama smiled, opening the door to enter the main Life Station. There he paused, as he glanced upward. "God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform." He hesitated again, as Cassiopeia appeared before him.

"Oh, Commander!" she exclaimed, bringing herself up short.

"Cassiopeia," replied Adama.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked tentatively, peeking into the room, an eyebrow going up questioningly, her eyes meeting Starbuck's for but a micron, before she glanced at Apollo and Boomer.

"Not at all," Apollo replied immediately, as he nodded at Boomer. He slapped a hand on Starbuck's shoulder once again. "Take it easy, buddy. I'll see you tomorrow."

"And, Starbuck . . ." Boomer added wryly as he crossed the room. "_Try_ to stay out of trouble."

"How much trouble can a guy get into in the Life Station, Boomer?" Starbuck asked, suddenly regretting his words as he noticed Cassie's behaviour. She was antsy, not really meeting anybody's eyes, while her arms were wrapped around her slender frame protectively. It had all the signs of her wanting to talk to him about _something_. She'd been out of sorts when they'd found him too, but whatever it was that was bothering her, he knew she'd get around to confiding in him. His lady wasn't exactly a shrinking violet.

A few departing pleasantries later they were alone, and Starbuck could feel that familiar unease once again rear its pesky head as Cassie busied herself for a moment checking his chart and the regeneration unit on the foot of the bed, her blonde head ducked, avoiding his gaze as she gathered her thoughts.

"Uh, how's Commander Byrne doing?" he asked of the Earthman they had recently rescued, desperate for the moment to deflect whatever was coming.

"Fine," she replied, motioning her hand in the direction of the main ward, not looking up. "The additional regeneration treatments on his damaged leg are progressing fine. The contracture has reversed as expected."

"That's good." He looked down at his own leg. "We could probably swap a few stories. Uh, Cass . . ."

"Starbuck, I need to explain . . ." Cassie announced abruptly, returning the medical data pad to its spot on the end of his biobed, and looking up at him.

The length of the bed separating them seemed like the Steppes of Virgon.

"Explain what?" he asked, across the vast divide.

"The first night, I was hosting Athena's baby shower. Yesterday, I was in surgery, and worked a double shift. I thought you were visiting Chameleon. He thought _you_ were with _me_, as it turns out." She smiled wanly. "I've sensed this . . . this _distance_ between us lately . . ."

"I've noticed that too," he murmured lightly, glancing down the length of the biobed pointedly. "I figure if you'd come up here," he beckoned towards her with a crooked index finger, backed up by his patented smile, "that it'll disappear. Unless you want me to come down there . . . " he threatened with a fleeting look at the bio-sleeve around his lower leg.

Her eyebrows arched as she pondered him for a moment, then she slowly wound her way around the foot of the bed, until she stood beside him. "I need to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me."

"_Completely_ honest . . ." he echoed.

"How do you _really_ feel about my becoming a doctor?"

_That_ was it? He smiled in relief. That was easy. He opened his mouth to reply.

"No," she shushed him, placing her fingers on his lips. "Think about it for a moment. Even with an accelerated program, this will take yahrens, Starbuck. Medicine is far more complicated than even operating a Viper. And it will occupy most of my time and energy. It will mean sacrifices."

He captured her fingers, raising her hand to his mouth again, and tenderly kissing it. "Haven't we already discussed this, Cass? Before you started."

"I know, but now we've had a chance to really experience it, and to understand how it will affect us," she replied, her shimmering blue eyes studying him intently.

"You're not having second thoughts?" he asked hesitantly, trying to imagine that Cassie would start something and not finish it. "About becoming a doctor."

"No," she replied, with a firm shake of her head. "I'm committed. I've come way too far, Starbuck."

"Then what?"

"I suppose I realized that I haven't actually seen very much of you lately . . ." She frowned. "And it made me wonder if . . . if _you _were having second thoughts. About us."

"_Me_?" he replied, pointing to his chest, trying to comprehend how his getting locked in a storage room could correlate with her thinking that he was getting cold feet about a commitment, just because she was becoming a doctor. The workings of the female mind, it was baffling, if not somewhat fearful.

She nodded, drawing in a deep, expectant breath.

"Cass, I get up each day, not really knowing what it will bring. But the one thing that I'm sure of, beyond doubt, is _us_." Her eyes searched his then, as if trying to see beyond his words. "I _love_ you," he added. That's all there was to it.

She smiled wryly. "You make it sound so simple."

"It _is_," he replied, before his subconscious reminded him of that Female Primary Objective that had recently infected the ranks, even taking down his two best friends. He drew in a ragged breath, as his breath hitched in a suddenly tight chest. What if it wasn't as simple as he thought it was? What if . . .? "Uh . . . wait a centon. Is this about getting _sealed_?"

Cassie's eyes widened in surprise, and laughter burbled out of her like a spring coming to life. _Delightful_ laughter. He grinned, abashed, but even more relieved.

"_Sealed_?" she asked, sliding her arms around his waist, and pressing herself against him. "No. With everything else I'm concentrating on just now, getting sealed is the furthest thing from my mind."

"_Oh_ . . ." he murmured into her blonde locks. Somehow her words weren't exactly reassuring. Just when he thought he had figured things out, she had the unique ability to rattle him. "You know, I suddenly feel like a Viper on a long-range patrol that just lost navigation. Are we okay?"

"We are," Cassiopeia murmured into his chest. She pulled back slightly, smiling beguilingly at him. "And while I _do_ think about it, right now, with all the enormous demands on my time, the timing isn't right. We've talked about this before. We don't have to be sealed to be committed." She took a deep breath. "I love you, Starbuck. You know that, don't you?"

And like a flicked switch, that niggling unease disappeared.

"I know," he grinned, reaching for her, and pulling her across his lap, until she was lying on the small biobed beside him, her legs draped across his. He ignored the beeping of the regeneration unit, as it protested at his movement.

"_Starbuck_!" she giggled, with a glance at the Life Station door. "If Dr. Salik catches us, he'll . . ."

"I'm willing to risk it," he cut off her words, pulling her close, until he could feel every soft and alluring curve pressing against him. "You can tell him you're _resuscitating_ me." He smiled roguishly, leaning down to capture her lips for an exquisite moment of selfish pleasure.

"I think maybe it's _you_ resuscitating _me_," she whispered quietly a moment later, as she let out a long sigh, and nestled against his bare chest. "I didn't realize how much I needed this."

In the background, the incessant beeping of the regeneration unit persisted.

He ignored it, cradling her against him, fingering her silky tresses, and simply revelling in their rekindled intimacy. Right now, there was nothing more appealing in the universe as the idea of spending some time alone with her. Just him, Cassie . . .and every patient and health care provider in the Life Station. It just wasn't fair, especially after the last couple of days. "Lord, I wish . . ."

_Whoosh._

"_Hhm hhm_," a deep voice growled from the door that had just slid open. "Lieutenant Starbuck. . ." Dr. Salik stood there, arms crossed, a glower on his features. "Are you _trying_ to get booted out of the Life Station prematurely? Because this is _just_ the kind of behaviour that will guarantee that eventuality."

Quirking her eyebrows, Cassie looked up at Starbuck thoughtfully. He smiled at her, chuckling, as Commander Adama's parting words came back to him. God, it seemed, _did_ work in mysterious ways. And he could imagine that just now He was nudging the Goddess of Luck on the shoulder, and coaxing her to smile upon a certain Colonial Warrior. . . after all, it was overdue. "So there's hope, Doc?" he said cheerfully to the Chief Medical Officer.

Then he kissed his beautiful lady again.


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue

"You're late," said the bearded man in the dark robe at the table. He raised a mug to his lips, gulping the steaming hot liquid inside, feeling it burn a path to his stomach. The pain was a welcome replacement for his simmering fury. It helped him to gather his thoughts, to see the way forward. It cleansed his soul of the impurities that he was subjected to while surrounded by the weaklings and deviants of the Fleet.

"My apologies. Getting away took longer than anticipated." The new arrival—also robed, but clean-shaven—raised a hand, signalling for the same beverage. The server dropped her gaze from his, hesitating for a moment, before hurrying to do his bidding, less it be interpreted as an affront. "Besides there's no sense in being obvious."

"I don't want _excuses_," the bearded one growled, his voice low and even.

"Yes, sir. But I have none to offer. It was . . . the Infidel, Starbuck. Once again his presence has defiled the Purpose, as it was foretold." His face twisted in anger. "We _should_ have taken steps long ago . . . " he hissed in vehemence, his dark eyes radiating hatred.

"That is not for _you_ to decide!" He sighed. "The Prophet was correct, then. It's been discovered?" He stroked his beard.

"Yes. How could it not? Every blessed canister, thanks to the Defiler."

"Lieutenant Starbuck," the other snarled contemptuously, his emotions running awry for but a micron, before he clamped down on them again.

They stopped, as the second beverage arrived, pausing while their server hurried about her duties under their cool regard. She glanced at them nervously, before scuttling away again.

"Colonial Warriors are swarming all over the _Galactica_ like locusts, _destroying_ all that we have achieved," the younger man reported. "_Sectars_ of planning since acquiring our goods on Brylon Five . . ." Spittle flew from his mouth with his ire.

"Calm yourself, less you attract the wrong kind of attention," the older man warned him, glowering. "Any word from our source in Wilker's lab?"

"The analyses of the canisters, and their contents, are still underway. It seems our precautions about fingerprints and other traceable evidence has at least salvaged _something _from this, this . . ."

"Debacle. Yes." The older man took another drink, slurping the hot liquid. "Adama is searching every possible space aboard the _Galactica_ for any more unauthorized cargo. The rest of the Fleet, as well. It will keep them busy for a while longer."

"I didn't know that, but it is a logical development. What of our Leader?"

"When the time comes. Be patient," the bearded one replied.

"Will we have to accelerate the timetable?"

"I am not certain. The Prophet must be consulted, first. What of the aberrant Zohrloch?"

"The flashcard that sabotaged his Viper was found, but the trail has gone cold. Again, we covered our tracks well."

"May _He _be praised for small favours. It is but a reprieve for the abomination, the pseudo-human simulacrum!"

"May _He _be praised," responded the other. "What of the Defiler, Starbuck? Should we see to his . . .strategic removal? Make him . . . _suffer_ . . . for thwarting our plans."

"Not yet. So soon after this unfortunate incident, it would only serve to raise Adama's suspicions even more. So would any further attempts against Sargamesh, or the others of his despicable race." The bearded one looked at his young guest. "Patience, my boy. Patience. They will of course be removed, all in good time. However, the Prophet must be consulted with the Eve of Firestorm anon. Tradition must be satisfied. Ultimately, vengeance will be ours."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Return to the _Galactica, _and act normally. Check in at your earliest opportunity with our source in Wilker's lab, and make sure that both Starbuck and Sargamesh's movements are closely monitored. Watch for patterns. Weaknesses. Keep me informed. When it is time, we will be ready."

"But without the gas . . ."

"All is not lost, as you suppose. We must suffer to attain the True Glory, as you know. We will be shown The Way."

"Yes, sir," said the second one. Rising, he tossed a cubit on the table and left the bar.

"Soon," said the bearded figure, watching the other depart. "Soon."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fleeing from the Cylon tyranny, the last Battlestar, _Galactica_, leads a ragtag fugitive Fleet on a lonely quest . . . a shining planet known as Earth.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With thanks, as always, to Senmut, beta-reader extraordinaire. And to Eric for his tireless patience with my Virtual Season continuity questions.

Lisa Z.


End file.
